Teenlock
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: A collection of Teenlock one-shots. Mostly hurt/comfort. They mainly revolve around Sherlock and John's friendship. (Sorry for the bad summary.) COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**I have a collection of Teenlock fanfictions that I have been writing recently, I decided to post them. **

**They're aren't titled and they won't be posted in any particular order. **

**Nor do I know how many of them there will be. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"No!" John Watson felt his heart break as the chemistry student hiccoughed, a single tear making a track down his pale cheek as his trembling hands snaked up to his head, gathering his curls into balled fists and tugging at them. His notes had been forgotten, his laptop discarded on the floor as he had risen to his feet, feeling the onset of panic. His breath became ragged as his tears sped up, gathering at his chin and dropping onto the front of his shirt.

"Sherlock," John rose from his bedroom carpet also, reaching out to his friend who was walking backwards, dangerously close to the stairs that led down from his attic bedroom, "Sherlock stop." He intercepted his friend as he changed his course, instead walking forwards, trying to pass John who placed a hand on the small of his back, steering the lanky teen towards his unmade bed and helping him sit down on the crumpled bedding. He crouched in front of him as he doubled over, a sound that resembled a pained sob escaped him as John gently pulled his hands away from his head.

"Breathe, Sherlock," The aspiring doctor soothed as he helped the shaking scientist move backwards so that he was leaning against the headboard. His legs were shaky as he propped them up into a triangular position, his pale hands now resting on his thighs, his fingers splayed. John instinctively placed his pillow behind Sherlock's head as his frame continued to tremble painfully. John knew that his friend's muscles must be beginning to ache from the uncontrollable movement as he watched his heaving chest, fighting to take in a substantial amount of air, failing miserably as another sob escaped him.

"Can," He gently prodded Sherlock's chest to get his attention, "you name all of the elements in the periodic table, in order?" John asked casually as he joined him on the bed, sitting beside him and instinctively wrapping an arm around his shoulders. John knew that focusing Sherlock's mind on something that he enjoyed and having him list the elements would help Sherlock gain control over his breathing, needing it to speak fluently.

"Hydrogen," Sherlock breathed, glancing at John who nodded encouragingly at him, "Helium, Lithium, Beryllium, Boron," Sherlock paused his shaky speech, taking in a deep breath which was released moments later as a strained gasp, "Carbon," he continued, staring at the wall opposite him, "Nitrogen, Oxygen, Fluorine, Neon, Sodium, Magnesium..."

John was nodding as Sherlock kept up his list, glancing around the room in the hopes that he would find something to calm the distressed teen. Finding nothing, he carefully threw his duvet over his friend to add a sense of warmth and comfort and, taking in the dark circles around his friend's eyes, asked "how much sleep did you get last night?"

"None." Sherlock admitted, avoiding eye contact with the medical student beside him. "I couldn't sleep. I was worrying." Sherlock sniffed, rubbing away the tears that had come to a stop on his cheeks.

"Oh, Sherlock!" John reprimanded in a soft voice, handing his friend a tissue. "Why on earth didn't you ring me?"

"I didn't want to disturb you." Sherlock murmured.

"Any time," John furrowed his eyebrows, gently poking his friend's bony knee, "are you listening?" Sherlock pulled his attention away from the bedding he had been scrutinising and met John's gaze. "Any time you need someone to talk to, I'm always on the end of the phone. Text me if you'd rather. Please don't suffer in silence."

John knew that his friend was so used to being bullied, so used to being hated and ridiculed by anyone who met him that he didn't trust easily. In fact, John felt honoured that the aspiring detective had felt safe enough in his presence to allow him to see him in such a state. To anyone who didn't know him, Sherlock was an unfeeling, stone-hearted freak. To John, Sherlock was a troubled teen with severe anxiety. A friend. Some might say he was John's best friend. The poor boy was being tormented daily by a group of bullies and, despite his calm exterior around them, he knew that they were greatly affecting him.

"Hey." John breathed. "Would you like to stay the night?" He questioned, placing his hand on the knee that he had just poked. He didn't want his friend to be alone. He didn't want him to be at home, keeping himself awake with his own thoughts when he could be here with his friend, comforted and cared for. Sherlock hesitated for a moment before nodding his head. "Are you feeling better?" John questioned, noting that Sherlock's breathing had evened out. "Here." He reached over to his bedside table, picking up a water bottle and handing it to Sherlock, ordering him to drink.

Sherlock's cheeks were still flushed and his skin was still clammy, but he was significantly calmer than he had been. He was still subdued and his eyes were still glistening but, as he sipped at John's water, there were no more physical tears.

**Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	2. Chapter 2

**In a few stories I've read, Sherlock often instigates the bullying by running his mouth and making insulting deductions. I chose to play on the fact that Sherlock does make deductions, he just keeps them to himself instead of sharing them with others. **

**This story deals with violence and injuries. (Just a word of warning.) **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

John Watson forced himself to hold back a gasp as he watched his friend slowly raise his head so that he could see his face. His left eye was bruised, almost black in colour and swollen closed, a cut outlining the bruise and a trail of dried blood ran down his cheek like a tear. The bridge of his nose was decorated with a large cut, the surrounding area also bruised, the result of the damage spreading underneath his right eye. The teen's nostrils were caked in try blood, as was his top lip, the blood acting like some kind of lipstick. The right side of his bottom lip was split and swollen, his teeth covered in blood when he opened his mouth to ask if he could come in.

John could tell from the way that his friend was holding himself that he'd been injured elsewhere on his body too. He was hunched over slightly, his shoulders tense and raised as though frozen in a permanent shrug. His thin arms were folded, cradling his chest, he looked like he was trying to hold his insides in, trying to stop himself from falling apart. His legs were spread apart slightly and John could only imagine the pain that he was in as a result of that.

"When, Sherlock?" John questioned simply, stepping aside and letting his friend in the house. He removed his satchel from his shoulder, placing it on the peg beside the front door with his own before guiding his friend towards the sofa, motioning for him to sit down. Sherlock did so, lowering himself painfully onto the designated couch cushion. The aspiring doctor sat down beside him, taking care not to touch him, he didn't know the full extent of his friend's injuries and he certainly didn't want to make them worse.

"On the way home," Sherlock mumbled, his speech distorted by his facial injuries, "just now. I came straight here. I haven't been home yet." He admitted as John stood from the sofa.

"What happened, Sherlock?" John questioned as he disappeared into the kitchen to fetch his family's first aid kit.

_Mortimer Langley. He was a new student. Older than Sherlock and a lot stronger too. He was the typical sporting type with large muscles and a tall stature. Sherlock had heard him call his name. Not his real name of course, nobody, except John, called him _Sherlock_. Only '_Freak_'. He knew it was Mortimer. It was always Mortimer. He had picked up on the vibe that the chemistry student was disliked and had, of course, rolled with it to raise his standings. On his first day there he had tormented the teen, spitting out expletives, names and hurtful comments in his direction whenever he saw him. He'd been there three days now and his bullying had turned physical, pushing Sherlock into walls and trying to trip him down the stairs. Sherlock had remained silent. He'd forced himself to keep his deductions in his head, to hold his tongue. _

_Sherlock didn't respond. He focused, instead, on getting home to empty his bladder. Sherlock didn't use the school toilets, he wouldn't risk being trapped in a confined space with people who disliked him. He had just turned the corner onto John's street, the medical student had been at home today - something to do with a 'dickey stomach', when he felt a hand grasp his collar, pulling him backwards. He tried to steady himself, to keep his balance, but he found himself on the floor. He was pulled back up by the front of his shirt, a fist smashing into his face, an elbow into his side and a knee into his groin. He was thrown back onto the ground, his chin sliding across the concrete, a group suddenly crowding around him, cheering Mortimer on as he sent a flurry of kids into the teens thin frame, an occasional punch to the head as a few others held him down, silencing him with their own hits. The torture didn't last long, not as long as he would have expected. It ended abruptly with a swift stomp between his legs and the group left him lying there. _

John had been cleaning Sherlock up as he recalled what had happened. He had a bowl of warm water and a heap of blood stained tissues on the linoleum flooring of his front room. Carefully, he reached up, tilting his friend's head back so that he could check his nose. It didn't look broken and the bleeding had ceased so John handed his friend an ice pack to hold to it and set about cleaning up his lip. Sherlock's bottom lip was damaged inside and out. John grabbed some cotton wool, placing it inside his mouth to try and stem the bleeding that had continued there whilst he set about cleaning the wound on the outside.

"Do you still need to pee?" John questioned casually as he dampened the tissue, carefully wiping the blood away from the outer wound so that he could check it properly.

"I didn't pee myself, if that's what you're asking." Sherlock murmured around the cotton wool.

"Its not." John nodded towards the staircase visible through the open door. "Go pee. I'll go and get a hot water bottle to ease the pain in your chest. I need to check your ribs too."

"Well, you're certainly not checking my crotch." Sherlock stated simply as he pushed himself painfully to his feet, shuffling towards the staircase.

"No," John shook his head with a smirk, "you can do that yourself. Go pee."

**SH-SH-SH-SH **

John was absolutely fuming as he sat in the chair by the television, watching his friend on the sofa. Mortimer had done quite a number on him and John knew, despite his lack of complaining, Sherlock was in agony. He had two broken ribs, which John had bandaged to support them, the bandage wrapping around his shoulder to keep it in place. His eye was definitely bruised, but there was no sign of further injury to it. His nose wasn't broken, just badly bruised and would be sore for a few days. John found a few bruises on his head from the punches but, thankfully, he was showing no signs of concussion, so John was letting him rest. His bottom lip was swollen but the bleeding had stopped so there was no need for him to go to the hospital. Sherlock wouldn't like that anyway. He'd probably refuse to go.

He was lying on his back on the sofa, holding a towel-wrapped ice pack to his head and another to his crotch in a bid to try and soothe his pain. A hot water bottle was balanced on his stomach and appeared to be helping the pain from his ribs. John had made him contact his family and tell them that he was staying overnight because he wanted to keep a close eye on him. He definitely didn't want him to be on his own, not after this.

**Thank you for reading.  
Please let me know what you think.  
****And thank you for the reviews. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	3. Chapter 3

**Here we have another. Just a short one this time. **

**Thank you for reading. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"Sherlock, my mum says," John cut himself off when he reached the top of the spiral staircase after making sure the door to his room was closed behind him, turning to enter his bedroom. In the time it had taken for him to go downstairs and make two cups of tea, his friend had sprawled himself out on the beige carpet, lying on his back with his head turned to the side, facing John's bed. His hands were balled up above his head, as though he'd been stretching, the red pen he'd been making notes on John's assignment with was still clutched in his right one. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open slightly, soft snores escaping him.

The teenage scientist was supposed to be staying for dinner and helping John with his assignments but, apparently, he was far too tired to do so. John smiled to himself at the sight and, regretfully, walked into the room, crouching beside his sleeping friend and gently shaking him. He watched as he slowly roused himself from his slumber, his eyes opening and flicking towards John before fluttering closed again. He moved suddenly, rubbing at his eyes and taking in a breath, a signal that he had fully awoken himself.

"I couldn't let you sleep on the floor, Sherlock," John excused himself apologetically, "surely you'd be much more comfortable on your bed?" The medical student gestured towards the spare single bed that had been assembled beside John's. Since forming a friendship with Sherlock, the latter had been staying over at his house so often that John had begged his mother to buy him a bed of his own so that he didn't have to keep sleeping on the bedroom floor, despite Sherlock trying to reassure him that it didn't matter, that he was fine on the floor.

When the bed had been purchased, the aspiring detective had been so grateful that John didn't think he'd ever seen him so happy. The pair had been left to their own devices and had worked together to rearrange John's bedroom, placing John's own single bed beside the small barricade that had been placed there to prevent him from falling down into the stairwell if he awoke during the night. They had placed John's wooden beside table and lamp in the middle of the room and placed Sherlock's bed near the wall, moving John's wardrobe (which now housed a few sets of Sherlock's clothes) at the bottom of Sherlock's bed and set John's desk opposite them. His chest of draws (which also held Sherlock's underwear and pyjamas) was placed to the right of John's bed.

"How long have I been out?" Sherlock mumbled, tiredly rubbing at his eyes and sitting himself up, placing the pen on John's notebook.

"Not long, Sherlock." John smiled as he plopped down onto his own bed. "My mum would like to know if you'll be staying overnight again." He questioned as Sherlock stood from the floor, sitting beside him on the bed and letting out a yawn as he stretched, arching his spine. Sherlock had certainly settled down around John, he was nowhere near as nervous as he had been initially. In fact, John might argue that he had gained some confidence in (and because of) their friendship. "I was thinking that, if you did, we could watch a movie or that documentary you brought the other day."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded with a smile. "I mean, I'd like that."

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	4. Chapter 4

**This story deals with the theme of suicidal thoughts. Its nothing too graphic, just a conversation between John and Sherlock, but I thought it would be best to give a warning.  
Sorry for any mistakes.  
I've read a few Teenlock stories and noticed that most depict the bullying and depression, but often he deals with it through self-harm. I chose a different route for Sherlock and, whilst he is depressed, he deals with it through John (i.e. spending time with him, talking to him). **

"Sometimes," The chemistry student's voice was barely a whisper as he fiddled with the pen he'd plucked from John's pen pot on his bedside table, "I just want to end it. To stop it. To make it all go away." The pair were sitting together on Sherlock's bed in John's house. "And I think that maybe, if I was left on my own for long enough, I would." Sherlock clicked the pen on and off for a moment, his eyes trained on the nib. "Or, at least, I would try to."

The aspiring detective glanced up at John, unshed tears glistening in his multi-coloured eyes, the rims slowly becoming redder, his bottom lip pulling out into a pout, quivering as he fought to keep his emotions under control. Sherlock returned his gaze to the pen and sighed softly.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered, referring to the tears that were causing the medical student's vision to swim. "I needed to tell someone."

"I'm glad you felt like you could tell me, Sherlock." John assured him patiently, his voice thick with emotion as he pushed himself a little closer.

"Sometimes," Sherlock swallowed the lump in his throat, "I just feel like life isn't worth putting up with the bullying." His speech was mumbled, as if he was ashamed of revealing his feelings. "What could possibly be worth being beaten, abused, insulted, mocked _every single day?_ And do you know what's worse?" He looked back up at John, watching as he shook his head. "I don't even know why. They just decided that they dislike me. No-one bothered to provide me with an explanation other than 'Freak'." Sherlock spat the word as he raised his hand, angrily swatting away a tear that had made an appearance.

"Sherlock," John spoke, but his friend continued undeterred.

"I'm _terrified _to leave my house, John." Sherlock sighed. "I'm terrified to leave _your_ house, John." Sherlock rubbed at his eyes again, wiping away more tears. "I'm scared to eat at school because I don't want to give them something else to mock me for. I don't even use the toilet at school because I'm _petrified_ that they're going to lock me in." John watched his friend, his shoulders were tense and his frame hunched over, as though trying to protect himself. It seemed to John that the chemistry student was building some kind of barrier around himself.

"Sherlock," John tried again, only to be interrupted by Sherlock once more.

"I've peed myself before," Sherlock noted, "did you know that?" John shook his head sadly. "It was during lunch in one of the science labs. Before you met me. I didn't tell anyone. Anyone who saw it simply assumed it was spilled liquid from an experiment." Sherlock wiped at his eyes again. "I hid my jeans with my coat." John felt an odd sensation in his chest, it felt as though his heart was physically aching for his friend who was trying to wipe away tears that were falling faster by the minute.

"Stop." John's voice was soft and a hand had appeared on Sherlock's knee. "You don't have to tell me, not if you don't want to."

Sherlock's face had taken on a red tint as he recalled the incident, but he was adamant that he was going to continue. "I need to tell someone. I have to get it out of my head and into the open." John just smiled softly, reassuringly, in response and nodded. "I, um, I wet the bed for a while as well. I stopped just before I started staying here." Sherlock sighed, stretching his aching back. "I just don't want to do it anymore."

"Sherlock," John cooed gently, trying to calm his distressed friend.

"I'm tired of being scared, John." Sherlock mumbled. "I'm tired of hurting." Sherlock growled, angrily launching John's pen across the room before burying his face in his hands. "I'm just tired."

"I didn't realise how much pain you were in, Sherlock." John apologised. His heart ached as it settled in his chest just how damaged, emotionally and mentally, his friend was. He watched quietly as Sherlock laid himself down on the bed and copied him so that they were lying face-to-face.

"I didn't want to upset you." Sherlock murmured. "But I did." He gestured to the tear that had made its way down John's cheek and onto Sherlock's pillow.

"Of course I'm upset, Sherlock." John sighed. "My best friend just told me that he's contemplated committing suicide." John watched as his Sherlock's expression morphed into once that he couldn't read. "What?" He questioned, furrowing his eyebrows and wiping away his tear.

"I-I'm your b-best friend?" Sherlock stammered. "You called me your best friend."

"Well of course, Sherlock." John nodded. "Did you think I'd let just anybody practically live at my house?" John reached out, touching Sherlock's shoulder before embracing him. "Promise me, Sherlock, if you feel like you're going to do anything like that and I'm not there, you'll ring me. Please, Sherlock." Sherlock didn't speak, only nodded sleepily into John's shoulder.

**Thank you for reading. **

**And thank you for the reviews. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	5. Chapter 5

**Here is another chapter. Sorry its being posted later than the others, but its quite a bit longer than the others. **

**I decided to give a description of Sherlock's house (sorry its so in depth), but I didn't want to it to be just the description. I already had this idea planned, I just decided to merge two ideas into one. **

**I've checked it over, but I apologise for any mistakes I might have missed. **

It had been a few weeks since John's previous visit to the Holmes' household. He could clearly remember thinking to himself that he didn't understand why Sherlock didn't like it here. Actually, 'didn't like' doesn't cover it. Sherlock despised it here. The house was magnificent. It was a large, multi-level house with a number of posh rooms. Sherlock had taken his friend on a tour, showing him almost every single room in the house (barring his parent's and brother's bedrooms). It consisted of a lounge, kitchen, dining room, conservatory, two bathrooms, three toilets and around 6 bedrooms in total. "Guest accommodation." Sherlock had explained. On the first level of the house there was an art room filled to the brim with easels, materials and canvases to name only a few. There was a wooden table in the corner with a number of portraits on it and there were framed paintings decorating the walls. "My mother's hobby." Sherlock had informed him as he pulled the large, wooden door closed behind him.

On the second level there was a large music room at the very end of the hallway. It was like a personal recording studio. There were microphones, soundboards and headphones along with a number of musical instruments ranging from a recorder that was hanging by the doorway to a beautiful baby grand piano in the centre. John was speechless as he looked around before being ushered out by Sherlock who, again, closed the door behind them, explaining that music is "my father's hobby."

John could have sworn that Sherlock's kitchen was as large as John's kitchen, dining room and living room combined. In the far corner of the room was an alcohol bar complete with taps and, as Sherlock pointed out, beer barrels in a coal cupboard. Sherlock had opened a refrigerator, the first of two, and shown John the range of alcohol his family had in stock "for the parties". Directly in the centre of the room was a black and marble breakfast bar lined with baskets of fruit and posh biscuit tins filled to the brim. "Oatmeal raisin, of course," Sherlock had smiled, offering one to John, "God forbid we eat anything unhealthy." Sherlock smirked to himself as he said this and all but danced around the breakfast bar and to the second fridge, tugging the door open and tossing John a bottle of water. "Only the best." Sherlock smiled, checking the label. "Mother would die if she felt we were viewed as anything less than the best." Sherlock smile turned sad as he said this and John, suddenly noticing the oven, resisted the urge to comfort him. The oven in question must have cost more than John's father's car, he was certain of it. It was beautiful and old-fashioned, but fit perfectly in this wonderful house. Manor, John corrected himself. This wasn't a house, it was a manor.

John's ability to form coherent words was still failing him when the pair passed through the dining room on their way towards the first set of stairs. "Only four chairs, but don't worry, there are plenty more in the conservatory," Sherlock joked as they passed the shining oak dining table and matching chairs topped with designed cushions "for extra comfort", and into the lounge. There was a candelabra in the centre of the table and John knew that the meals must be extravagant, especially when compared to the fish fingers, chips and peas served at John's house. The living room was just as impressive. There were two black leather sofas and three chairs, all complete with decorative blankets, positioned around a glass coffee table on a fluffy rug in front of a large flat-screened television.

John gave up on speech altogether when he turned around to come face to face with a very judgemental looking bearded dragon who was staring out of the glass, appearing to be scrutinised him. Sherlock had reached out, taking John by the shoulder and guiding him away from the large vivarium, and excused the lizard with "My brother's. Not a fan of strangers."

John was in awe when he was finally lead up to Sherlock's bedroom. He stood in the doorway with his eyes wide and his mouth agape, his tongue moving as he tried to think of something to say, something to express his thoughts. Like himself, Sherlock slept on the top floor of the house. Unlike himself, Sherlock's bedroom was not the attic. The room was twice the size of John's own bedroom and was decorated coffee cream and dark brown. The coffee cream carpet was fluffy underfoot, so much so that John felt as though he was sinking with each step he took as Sherlock beckoned him into his bedroom. There was a king sized bed in the far right hand corner made up with coffee cream and brown bedding that matched the rest of the room's furbishing. Even his pyjamas were a dark brown and appeared to have been tailor made for him. They sat folded perfectly on the corner of his bed waiting for him to wear them.

There was a large desk in the near left hand corner with the most recent, up-to-date computer (and laptop), and plenty of room for written notes. His desk was neat and well arranged, spotless compared to John's. There was a mug and a coaster on the corner of the table, a few centimetres away from the edge. He even had a small coffee maker and a kettle (and teapot) on his desk. And his own storage of sugar, teabags and milk (in the mini fridge plugged in at the bottom of his bed). The cups were perfectly clean and John discovered why when he had leant on a door and fallen through it as it opened again his weight, landing on his bottom on the floor of Sherlock's en suite bathroom.

Sherlock owned a walk-in wardrobe that was filled with suits "for gathering" and a collection of his typical black jeans and button down shirts in a range of colours. He even owned a number of black jackets. His bedroom was so clean, John would have sworn that it was completely uninhabited. Everything was folded perfectly and placed just so. Sherlock had gestured to his bed, telling John to sit down. He did so, rather uncomfortably, terrified he would crumple the bedding. As he sat down, his eyes were drawn to a pile of books on Sherlock's floor, almost reaching the height of his bed. Not regular books, not fiction novels and stories - they were encyclopaedias, psychology books, science and chemistry textbooks that he had clearly bought for himself.

John suddenly felt very inferior. He sat nervously, his body tense as he perched on the edge of the bed, so far forwards that if Sherlock were to open his bedroom window, which was shielded by brown blackout curtains, the breeze would knock him to the floor. He was scared to move, petrified that he would upturn something, or dirty something, if he did. When he looked away from the books he caught the gaze Sherlock was throwing him as he made them both a cup of tea (his 'what _are_ you doing?' look) and tentatively pushed himself further backwards.

John knew now. He understood perfectly why his best friend disliked this house. It wasn't, necessarily, the house he didn't like, it was the people in it. The teenage scientist had been harshly reprimanded when he had, accidentally, walked into the breakfast, bruising his hip, and had dropped a glass of water on the linoleum, the glass fragmenting on impact. Instead of questioning whether her son was alright and assuring that he wasn't too badly injured, Mrs. Holmes had berated her boy for being so unobservant, claiming that she had expected better from him and ordered him to clean up the mess whilst praying that he had "not damaged the linoleum, we cannot have visitors believing that we cannot afford to repair damages. I am so sorry, John."

Sherlock had almost ran up the numerous flights of stairs that led to his bedroom after cleaning up his mess, pulling John behind him by the wrist. John was confused as Sherlock dragged him through the hallways and into the bedroom. Now he knew why. It turned out that Sherlock's accident had been the first raindrop of Noah and soon enough his mother and father were involved in a very heated verbal altercation. John would have assumed that the size of the house and number of closed doors between them and the kitchen where they were arguing would have muffled their voices, making their argument barely discernible. But he was wrong. The large house and silent hallways only served to project their voices and the pair could hear every word perfectly. A lot of them being "Sherlock".

"I'm sorry," Sherlock spoke up suddenly as John sad on his friend's bed. His voice was weak and his left hand was resting on his hip. He moved quickly despite the obvious pain he was feeling and pushed his bedroom door closed. The action did absolutely nothing to prevent the raised voices from reaching them. "I'm so sorry, John. You shouldn't have to hear this. I'm sorry." Sherlock stood by his door for a moment before shifting and making his way against his desk, leaning against it, his body face John as he lifted his shirt up to peer his hip, a red-ish-purple bruise already appearing.

"Sherlock," John stood from the bed, stepping forwards to examine his friend's bruise, frowning when the younger teen stepped backwards away from him, "Its fine, its not your fault."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock repeated, his voice quiet as an embarrassed expression crossed his features, he lowered his head as the volume from below raised momentarily. "They'll be doing this all night now, John." Sherlock informed him, his tone apologetic as his eyes flickered towards his bathroom. "You should go home. You won't get any sleep." Sherlock sighed softly, slowly making his way towards the bathroom. "I'm so sorry."

"Sherlock, stop." John ordered softly, reaching for Sherlock's hand in a bid to calm him down. "You're not hiding from me, you're not shutting yourself away in there. Its not your fault. And I'm not letting you sit in their mentally beating yourself up for something you're not guilty of." John gestured to Sherlock's bed with a soft, reassuring smile. "Shall we sit down?"

"I'm sorry, John." Sherlock repeated, allowing himself to be guided across the room. He climbed onto his bed, leaning up against the wall. John copied him, sitting beside him.

"Stop apologising, Sherlock." John ordered, keeping his voice gentle as he reached over and placed a hand on his friend's leg, the material rough under his hand, gaining his attention. "Why don't we do something?"

"Like what?" Sherlock questioned, clearly frustrated. "There's nothing we can do here. Besides we mustn't make any noise, not when they're arguing." At John's questioning frown, Sherlock sighed slightly before elaborating. "It'll only serve to make them worse. They hate it when there's too much noise. Unless it's classical music. But when they're arguing, it's safer to stay as quiet as possible." Sherlock shifted, pulling his legs up to his chest and resting his chin on his knees, his hands on his ankles as he unconsciously began leaning towards John. "I don't own games, John, not like you." Sherlock sighed. "And my family don't believe in fictional movies. Only documentaries. We mustn't make any noise, anyway." The pace of his speech had quickened as he'd continued.

"Shh, Sherlock." John cooed softly, wrapping an arm around his friend's thin shoulders. "It's alright. We'll talk." He suggesting, making a conscious effort to keep his voice low. "Talking sounds good, doesn't it? It's not too loud."

As they talked, John took in his friend's jittery hands and exceedingly shaky voice as the shouts from below became louder. John managed to persuade Sherlock to get changed into his pyjamas, doing so himself, so that he was ready to sleep when the arguing finally died down and as a means to focus his mind on something else. When they returned to Sherlock's bed, it seemed as though the teenager was waiting for something. He was slowly getting more and more tense and his eyes repeatedly flickered towards the door as he edged himself closer and closer to John, apparently trying to seek protection from him.

John had just wrapped his arm around his friend's shoulders again, trying to comfort him, and was speaking softly when he was cut off by a loud crash from below. Obviously somebody had just thrown something and, going by the sound, it was something rather heavy. Sherlock jumped, flinching violently and instinctively turning to bury his head in what would have been his pillow but, due to their position, ended up being John's shoulder. Sherlock's hands balled into fists, his left clutching John's pyjama top tightly. As another crash echoed around the house, Sherlock pushed his head further into John's neck.

"Oh, Sherlock." John sighed softly, his left hand unconsciously massaging Sherlock's shoulder in a soothing manner. "Do they fight like this a lot?"

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "It'll get worse before it ends." Sherlock's voice was muffled by John's shoulder. "We won't get any sleep. I'm so sorry, John. I didn't mean to break the glass. I should have been more careful." John's hand continued to run up and down's shoulder's upper arm as he spoke. "If I'd have known it would happen tonight, I wouldn't have let you come."

"So," John's voice had dropped to a whisper, "you put up with this at home and everything at school as well?" Sherlock nodded. "Oh, Sherlock."

"I feel sick." Sherlock whimpered, pulling his head away from John's shoulder and trying to escape John's embrace.

"You're upset." John reasoned, tightening his grip slightly. "Its understandable. Do you always feel sick when they fight?"

"Yes." Sherlock swallowed, nodding. "I wish we were at your house. Why didn't we stay at your house today, John? Your family don't fight."

"Not like this, no." John agreed. "Lay down, Sherlock." He soothed, watching his friend as he did so before laying down beside him. "Its fine. Just focus on me, lets talk."

Sherlock was right. His parent's fight did escalate. It lasted into the early hours of the morning and Sherlock had clung to John like a monkey the entire time. It was just past two in the morning when the fight ended abruptly with Mr. Holmes walking out, slamming the door loudly behind him and Mrs. Holmes sobbing her way upstairs, muttering about how she hated her life and her family. John remained quiet, soothing his jittery friend, making sure he was finally asleep before settling down and following his lead.

**Thank you for reading. **

**Sorry, again, for any mistakes. **

**Thank you for the reviews. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	6. Chapter 6

**This one is just a short one. I believe this might be the shortest of all of the one-shots I have written for this series.  
I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. **

John's fingers danced soothingly through the chemistry student's dark, fluffy curls, fiddling with the rings and scratching at his scalp occasionally. The teenage scientist was staring up at him, distress clearly communicated through his sad eyes and protruding bottom lip. His broken tears had long since dried, leaving dirty tracks on his face, reminiscent of his breakdown.

Sherlock had balled himself up on his bed, the lanky male creating the smallest ball he could muster. He was on top of the duvet, but the bedding had wrapped around him slightly creating a half chrysalis of sorts. His head was slightly buried in the pillow, the corners turning up against his face and his attention was focused on the wall.

John had purposely climbed onto his companion's bed, clambering over him so that he was in his line of sight.

Sherlock had been oddly subdued on the way home from school. He'd met up with John in the wind tunnel as they had planned, but something wasn't right. He refused to look John in the eye, he barely spoken other than a few indiscernible grunts and John couldn't miss his trembling hands.

John had tried and better tried to coax his friend into speaking, to get him to tell him what was causing him such distress but to no avail. It wasn't until they reached the house and entered the comfort of the attic bedroom they shared that the teen exploded. He took a deep breath before launching his books across the room with an angry growl, sending them skidding onto John's desk and down the back onto the floor.

He turned violently, clearly planning on moving towards his bed, but his sudden movement threw him off balance, sending him sprawling onto the floor. He landed uncomfortably on his knee and a pained, hysterical scream tore from his throat, the force of which almost making him gag.

Sherlock didn't even attempt to wipe away the tears that had begun flowing down his cheeks as his body slowly went limp, apparently losing all strength and he crumpled into a pile on the bedroom floor. John was standing at the top of the stairs, watching the entire event unfold, his eyebrows raised and his mouth agape. He had seen Sherlock upset before but he had never seen him so inconsolable.

It seemed as though it took an age for the teen to calm down enough that he regained the strength to drag himself, painfully slowly, onto his bed. Unable to watch his friend suffer any longer, John had helped him up and onto the surface, observing him as he curled in on himself, lifting his legs up to his stomach, his arms folded into his chest, facing upwards so his hands, clutched together, were resting under his chin as he buried his head into the pillow.

John purposely refrained from speaking. He didn't believe that Sherlock needed to hear his words, to hear the promises and reassurances he had uttered so many times he felt that it would save time to just record them. Instead he focused on playing with Sherlock's black, floppy curls, gently rubbing his hand up and down his arm occasionally. Sherlock's hands were still trembling slightly, but now he just looked completely exhausted. He was blinking slowly, his eyes glazed over. His breathing had evened out and John knew that it wouldn't be long before his friend finally dozed off.

**Sorry it's so short.  
Thank you for reading.  
Thank you for your reviews.  
Please let me know what you think.  
ibelieveinguardianangels**


	7. Chapter 7

**This has been separated into three separate chapters, but they all follow on.  
Here is the first part.  
Sorry for any mistakes. It has been checked but I may have missed some. **

Part 1

"I'm going on holiday," John informed Sherlock as he stepped out of the front door to meet him, handing over a banana for his breakfast because he knew that Sherlock would have been in too much of a rush to escape that house that he wouldn't have given breakfast a second thought. Sherlock had spend the night at his own house because his mother had thrown a party and wanted her youngest overly intelligent son there to show off, "for a fortnight." He continued, falling into step with the aspiring detective.

"My mum says that you're more than welcome to join us." John was about to speak again when he turned his head to the side to address him and found that he was alone and, apparently, talking to a lamppost. "Sherlock?" The teenage scientist had come to a stop. In fact, he'd completely frozen mid-step, even to the point that his left foot was elevated slightly. It looked like somebody had pressed a button and frozen the teenager. He was staring directly at John with his mouth agape. "Are you okay?" John questioned, retracing the few steps to his friend. "Sherlock?" John reached out to touch his shoulder, the action apparently serving to pull him out of whatever trance he had found himself in.

"A-" The word came out as a gasp, as though Sherlock had just rebooted himself. "A f-fortnight?" He stammered, his eyes flickering slightly, as though he was trying to read the smaller male. "With me? Are you sure?" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, lowering his foot to the pavement, the banana he had been eating still raised to his lips. "You meant to ask me? Are you sure Mrs. Watson didn't say somebody else?" John sighed softly, placing a hand on Sherlock's elbow reassuringly before gesturing for him to start walking again.

"She said you, Sherlock," John smiled, "do you really think I could mix your name up with somebody else's? It was you, I assure you. But if you're still unsure, ask her yourself this evening."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"John," Sherlock spoke through gritted teeth as he followed his friend up the stairs and to the attic bedroom they shared whenever he stayed over at John's house, trying to keep his voice hushed "this is all too much." He followed him into the bedroom, placing the notebook he had been carrying onto John's desk out of the way. "I can't let your family pay for a holiday for me." He noted, watching as John dropped his jumper on the floor. "Mummy would blow a gasket if she thought I was scrounging off others."

"You're not." John assured him as he dropped tiredly onto his bed, flinging his arms up and mimicking a starfish before kicking his legs as he rose again, deciding to get changed into his bedclothes. They'd already had supper, all he needed to do now was shower and he could go to sleep whenever he was ready. "Consider it a treat."

"A treat for what?" Sherlock questioned as he crossed to his own bed, sitting down on top of the duvet and folding his legs underneath himself, unconsciously picking at his socks.

"I just think that you deserve a treat, Sherlock." John smiled, glancing over at him as he rummaged through his chest of drawers, trying to locate a clean pair of underwear. "You've been through an awful lot recently." He noted, pulling out his boxers with a look of triumph. "I think it's about time that somebody does something nice for you instead. We'll be going on holiday anyway, it'll just be more fun if you accept the invitation and join us."

"But its expensive, John." Sherlock almost whined, sending John a pointed look. "I mean, there's the flight, the hotel, the activities - I just think that it's far too much." It's not as though money was a problem for Sherlock, but his parents would never let him spend it on something so frivolous and Sherlock couldn't expect John's family to pay for him. John shook his head as he walked around his bed so he was facing Sherlock, letting himself drop onto the mattress and setting about tugging on a pair of socks that he was adamant to wear to bed.

"I'd like to have you there." John informed him. "What's a holiday if I can't share it with my best friend? You and I will share a hotel room." John began to describe the holiday resort to him. "Breakfast and an evening meal will be catered for. Mum and dad will only take me and Harry to the best places they can find. Oh! There's a pool!" John gasped. "Mum's shown us pictures. Please, Sherlock?" John almost begged his friend, watching as he raised his eyebrow at him. "It won't be the same without you."

"I don't know, John." Sherlock shook his head, averting his gaze and capturing his bottom lip in his teeth.

"Well, think about it? Please?" John questioned, tilting his head to the slide slightly.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

John jumped from his seat, positively beaming as Sherlock as he wrapped his arms around the teenage scientist's neck as he let out an oddly feminine squeak of excitement. Sherlock awkwardly patted his back, trying to pull away from his embrace.

"Oh thank you, Sherlock!" John all but squealed. "Thank you! I'm so glad you've decided to accept the offer!" John pulled away from his friend who was standing, a look on his face that appeared to be a cross between amusement and irritation.

"We have to start planning!" John exclaimed. "Looking through brochures, deciding what we're going to do when we get there!" Sherlock purposely refrained from pointing out that the holiday was still three months away.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"Wow!" John breathed, his mouth agape as he and Sherlock entered the hotel room they'd be staying in." John lowered his suitcase to the floor, Sherlock following his lead, and turned back to look at Sherlock who was sporting an awed expression that John was sure was reminiscent of his own.

"So, the evening meal is in two hours." John, making his way over to the balcony and looking out at the view. "Until then we can do whatever we want. Which bed do you want, Sherlock?" John turned to find his friend had vanished. "Sherlock?"

"Look at this." Sherlock's voice emitted from the bathroom, the echo giving John a sense of how large the room was. John followed the sound, finding his friend standing in the middle of a very comfortable looking bathroom. The floor was carpeted with a coloured rug that wasn't dissimilar to John's bedroom carpet. It consisted of a sink, bathtub and shower that Sherlock seemed to be eying up. It was spotless. Even the toilet was shining. "You're parents really go all out, don't they?" Sherlock questioned, glancing at his friend from the corner of his eye.

"Oh yes." John agreed, nodding his head, the action over exaggerated. John followed Sherlock out of the bathroom and the pair decided on the bed's they would be sleeping in for the fortnight. John had opted for the one close to the balcony and Sherlock was more than happy with the one by the wall. It later occurred to John just how similar the layout of the hotel room was to John's bedroom.

"We can see the pool from here." Sherlock noted from the balcony, having taken himself out there whilst John was fishing around in his suitcase for his book. He re-entered the room to find John sitting, cross-legged, on his bed, his nose buried in an adventure novel he had taken a liking to. John glanced up as Sherlock removed his own suitcase from beside his bed, searching for the chemistry textbook he had brought along with him. John chose not to comment.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"So," Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry with the fluffy white towel Mrs. Watson had leant him. His black curls lost a lot of their springiness when wet, so they were just flopping in his face and John had to force himself not to laugh as he continually pushed them from his eyes, "what's planned for today?"

"Fun." John smirked at his friend, watching as he sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with his socks. He raised the comb he was holding, running it through his sandy blond hair as Sherlock continued getting changed. "We're having breakfast in half an hour. Then you and I are going to the pool." John smiled as Sherlock nodded along with his words. "I was thinking we could go to a cafe for lunch and then to the theme park before dinner. I brought some board games for after dinner. And we'll be meeting with my family for the evening meal and then we'll be in here to settle down before bed."

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels**


	8. Chapter 8

Part 2

"Wow!" John breathed, his mouth agape as he and Sherlock entered the hotel room they'd be staying in." John lowered his suitcase to the floor, Sherlock following his lead, and turned back to look at Sherlock who was sporting an awed expression that John was sure was reminiscent of his own.

"So, the evening meal is in two hours." John, making his way over to the balcony and looking out at the view. "Until then we can do whatever we want. Which bed do you want, Sherlock?" John turned to find his friend had vanished. "Sherlock?"

"Look at this." Sherlock's voice emitted from the bathroom, the echo giving John a sense of how large the room was. John followed the sound, finding his friend standing in the middle of a very comfortable looking bathroom. The floor was carpeted with a coloured rug that wasn't dissimilar to John's bedroom carpet. It consisted of a sink, bathtub and shower that Sherlock seemed to be eying up. It was spotless. Even the toilet was shining. "You're parents really go all out, don't they?" Sherlock questioned, glancing at his friend from the corner of his eye.

"Oh yes." John agreed, nodding his head, the action over exaggerated. John followed Sherlock out of the bathroom and the pair decided on the bed's they would be sleeping in for the fortnight. John had opted for the one close to the balcony and Sherlock was more than happy with the one by the wall. It later occurred to John just how similar the layout of the hotel room was to John's bedroom.

"We can see the pool from here." Sherlock noted from the balcony, having taken himself out there whilst John was fishing around in his suitcase for his book. He re-entered the room to find John sitting, cross-legged, on his bed, his nose buried in an adventure novel he had taken a liking to. John glanced up as Sherlock removed his own suitcase from beside his bed, searching for the chemistry textbook he had brought along with him. John chose not to comment.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"So," Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry with the fluffy white towel Mrs. Watson had leant him. His black curls lost a lot of their springiness when wet, so they were just flopping in his face and John had to force himself not to laugh as he continually pushed them from his eyes, "what's planned for today?"

"Fun." John smirked at his friend, watching as he sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with his socks. He raised the comb he was holding, running it through his sandy blond hair as Sherlock continued getting changed. "We're having breakfast in half an hour. Then you and I are going to the pool." John smiled as Sherlock nodded along with his words. "I was thinking we could go to a cafe for lunch and then to the theme park before dinner. I brought some board games for after dinner. And we'll be meeting with my family for the evening meal and then we'll be in here to settle down before bed."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

John took a running leap into the water, aiming to land on top of Sherlock who was treading water and had been slowly moving towards the centre of the pool. John came up short and found himself having to swim the rest of the way to his friend who was laughing at him. It was the first time John could ever recall seeing Sherlock's eyes light up when he smiled.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" John questioned, swimming in circles around Sherlock who turned on the spot, his legs kicking rapidly beneath him to try and keep him afloat. "I'm glad." John smiled in return, the smile genuine. The pair had been in the pool for the better part of two hours and, he noticed, Sherlock was beginning to shiver slightly despite the warmth of the sun that was beating down on them. "I'm hungry." John realised suddenly, turning a shade of red when he realised he'd said that out loud.

John all but dragged his friend out of the pool and into the changing room. John was almost laughing at his friend as they rushed to get dressed, Sherlock ending up with two legs in one and his head trying to push through his arm hole in his haste to get ready. John took Sherlock by the wrist and they pair were almost running to get down to the cafe John was so adamant to show him.

When they reached it, John could see why. It was science themed. The menu was set up like a periodic table, the seats like chemistry labs. Even the cups were designed like beakers, the plates like giant Petri dishes. Sherlock was struck dumb when John lead him over to the seat, ordering them both chocolate syrup and ice cream covered pancakes along with a large chocolate milkshake filled topped with mini marshmallows each.

"Are you entirely sure it's a good idea to each such rubbish before riding roller coasters?" Sherlock questioned, spooning some ice cream into his mouth.

"Let's find out." The pair paid for their food before heading off towards the theme park, John buying them both candyfloss on the way.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"Nope." John noted, laughing at Sherlock's disgusted expression as he wiped his mouth. John's stomach had rejected the sweet treats they'd eaten for dinner and he'd found himself throwing up into the bin beside the roller coaster they had just exited. "No, it wasn't a good idea."

"Are you okay?" Sherlock questioned as John accepted the tissue he was holding out to him, wiping his mouth again before standing slowly and turning to him, an excited smile on his cheeks as he pointed to the next ride he, apparently, wanted to go on. "What? Really?" Sherlock questioned as John grabbed his arm, dragging him through the crowds and towards the ride.

"It's all part of the fun, Sherlock." John smiled as they joined the cue. "I'm fine. I promise." They boarded the ride, Sherlock pretty certain John's shouting had almost deafened him and, when the ride ended, John turned to Sherlock and asked; "what do you want to go on next, Sherlock?" The question stumped him. John had been making the decisions all day.

"Oh, um, uh - it's up to you." John shook his head.

"This is your holiday too." John pointed out. "And I'd like to do something you want to do." Sherlock's head turned slowly as he took in his surroundings before pointing over to the biggest roller coaster he could see and John's smiled seemed to grow larger "I think your thinking."

The boys were still on a high from their excitement when the time to meet up with John's family for supper arrived. Sherlock's leg was bouncing under the table and he was struggling to keep his smile from his face. John, on the other hand, was visibly bouncing in his seat, gushing about everything they had done.

"Boys," Mr. Watson spoke, "I think it's time you try and settle down now. You'll need to sleep soon."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

Poor Sherlock had drifted off to sleep partway through a game of Scrabble with John. He was leaning up against the bed, his head resting again his chest, his legs pulling up to meet his chin and his arms splayed randomly out by his sides. John hadn't been far behind him, laying himself out on the floor of the hotel.

**One more part left for this. **

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	9. Chapter 9

**Here's the final part.  
Sorry its so short.****  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

Part 3

"What's wrong?" John questioned as he exited the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, water from his hair dripping into his eyes. Sherlock was sat on the bed he had called his own for the past fortnight, leaning against the wall, his head resting against the paint. His legs were pulled up into a triangular position, his hands resting on his stomach. "Unwell?" John questioned, wondering if the junk food the pair had been eating a lot of during the holiday was finally catching up with his friend. But Sherlock shook his head.

"We have to leave tomorrow." Sherlock sighed.

"We do." John nodded sadly, pulling his clothes from his suitcase and slowly getting dressed.

"Its been nice to forget that people don't like me, John." Sherlock's voice had taken on a depressed undertone. "And tomorrow I'm going back to that life."

"Are you worried?" John questioned, pulling a t-shirt over his head, discarding the towel on the floor and plopping down onto the bed with Sherlock.

"My stomach's in knots." Sherlock nodded, unconsciously rubbing the area. "I'm not ready to leave. I'm not ready to return to that." John reached out, placing his hand on his friend's knee. "I didn't realise that this holiday would be over quite so quickly."

"I know. But you enjoyed yourself, didn't you?" Sherlock nodded. "Don't worry, Sherlock. You know that you have me if you need any help. Or if you just need somebody to talk to." Sherlock's facial expression had morphed into one that John recognised very well. It was the expression Sherlock got when he was close to tears. His mouth turned downwards, his bottom lip protruding ever so slightly as his became red and he stared up at him with what John had affectionately named his 'puppy dog' face. "Sherlock, no," John soothed, "don't upset yourself."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock wiped at his eyes, stopping the tears before they fell.

"Come on, we have a lot planned for today. See if we can't take your mind off everything, hmm?" John questioned softly, smiling at the chemistry student.

**I know the 'happy' bits aren't very good, but I'm not very good when it comes to writing happy fanfiction. **

**Thank you for reading anyway. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels**


	10. Chapter 10

**This one's a little different, it's Sherlock comforting John instead of John comforting Sherlock. I felt like switching it up a bit. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"What's wrong?" Sherlock's words were murmured as he stretched, arching his spine in a bid to wake himself up properly. John was sat up in his bed, massaging his left shoulder with a pained expression on his face. John had injured his shoulder during a fall out of a tree a few months before befriending Sherlock. He'd explained that he'd try to cling onto a branch and had, as a result, dislocated his shoulder and torn the muscles around the injured joint. He was treated at the hospital and his father, being a doctor, had kept a close eye on him. Despite the physiotherapy he received, the injury had never fully healed and he still suffered with it on occasion. John had days when he could barely dress himself, days when he needed to ask Sherlock for help, but he usually tried not to complain. Sherlock knew that his friend despised his injury, he saw it as a weakness and, Sherlock's constant reassurances aside, nothing would change his opinion.

Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, balling his fists and throwing them behind his head as he stretched again, his right hand absently scratching at his mussed curls. He threw of his covers and stood from his bed, stopping momentarily to straighten his pyjama bottoms that had, somehow, ended up twisted beyond belief, pulled up almost to his chest, the front somehow around his side and the legs hooked up, just below the knee. He crossed to John's bed, moving his friend's hand away from his injured shoulder and replacing it with his own, warm ones. His hands moved swiftly, dancing over the tense muscles in an attempt to try and soften them as he tried to massage out the pain. Sherlock, of course, noticed how John averted his gaze, not daring to look Sherlock in the eye as he tried to ease his discomfort.

"Which would work best, a hot water bottle or an ice pack?" Sherlock questioned, letting go of John's shoulder and initiating eye contact. He inquired about his friend's pain level which, according to John, was an 8. Far too high on the scale of 1-10 for Sherlock's liking.

"A hot water bottle will soothe the pain," John mumbled, wincing as he moved his head too quickly, the action pulling on his already tense muscles, "but an ice pack will prevent swelling." Sherlock climbed off his friend's bed and John watched as he rummaged through his bedside table, producing a packet of pain relief. He popped two out and handed them to John, making sure he had them in his mouth before he opened his water bottle. He knew for a fact that John's pain would prevent him from being able to do it himself.

"I believe we should focus on the pain rather than the swelling." Sherlock noted, taking John's bottle and replacing the lid, putting it back on top of the bedside table. "We can work on bringing down the swelling later. Just rest," Sherlock smiled, pushing his feet into his slippers and swinging on a dressing gown, heading towards the staircase, "I'll go and get you a hot water bottle." When Sherlock returned equipped with the hot water bottle and a mug of tea for him, he found his friend standing in the centre of the room, staring dejectedly at the open wardrobe, his mouth pulled down into a frown. "John," Sherlock placed the mug onto his bedside table, making sure to put some tissues underneath it, "Don't worry about getting dressed. It's Saturday." Sherlock carefully laid the hot water bottle on his friend's shoulder.

"I can't wear my pyjamas all day, Sherlock." John groaned, holding onto the hot water bottle as Sherlock gently steered him back towards his bed.

"Give the bottle time to do what it needs to." Sherlock smiled, helping John sit down. "Then you can think about getting dressed. I'll help you if need be." Sherlock made certain that his friend was at least relatively comfortable before dropping down onto his own bed, lying on his back, facing the ceiling and closing his eyes, his fingers steepled over his lips. John had seen Sherlock adopting that odd position a lot recently. He didn't know why, or where it had come from, but Sherlock seemed to like it and he was clearly comfortable enough so he didn't question it. "Rest, John." Sherlock murmured, cracking an eye open to glance at his friend, making sure he was doing so.

"This is ridiculous." John mumbled, punctuating his words with a sigh. "I shouldn't be laid up like this, Sherlock. I should be up doing things!" Sherlock rolled onto his side so he could watch his friend, preparing himself to move if John seemed as though he needed to be comforted. "I should be doing homework! Or-or-or," he stammered, clearly wracking his brains to think of something, "I should be keeping Harry out of trouble." Sherlock rose from his bed again, rejoining John on his.

"Stop, John." Sherlock soothed, placing his hand on the small of John's back as his friend sat up again. "Everything's fine. Your mother, father and sister are away, remember?" Sherlock questioned. "They've gone for a weekend to your caravan. You didn't want to go." Sherlock reached out, carefully repositioning John's hot water bottle. "Your homework can wait. It's only Saturday. We can watch a movie or something." Sherlock suggested.

"I can't relax enough to watch a movie, Sherlock!" John snapped angrily, regretting his decision when Sherlock's comforting smile dropped, a slightly hurt expression gracing his features momentarily. "Look, I'm sorry Sherlock, it's just - this stupid shoulder." He sighed, dropping his gaze. "I'm sorry."

"No, its fine." Sherlock waved it away, his smile returning before he stood, making his way over to the shared wardrobe and pulling out his black skinny jeans and white shirt. "It was a silly suggestion anyway." Sherlock stripped of his clothes, redressing himself. "Breakfast?"

"Oh, Sherlock," John shook his head, wincing as he tried to push himself from the bed and hold the hot water bottle on his shoulder at the same time, "you don't have to make me breakfast."

"I'm thinking scrambled eggs on toast." Sherlock continued, ignoring John's disclaimer. "Its not a lot." Sherlock turned around, sitting on his bed to pull on a pair of black socks. "But its better than nothing. Orange juice as well, providing you have some." He stood, making his way towards the staircase before turning to look at John. "Breakfast in bed? Or are you coming down?" John slowly rose from his bed, following Sherlock down the stairs.

"It wasn't a silly suggestion." John noted as he sat at the kitchen table, watching as Sherlock basically danced around the room, preparing John's breakfast. "It was a nice thought."

**Thank you for reading. **

**Thank you for the reviews. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**Also, I haven't forgotten about my other stories. I will be updating those. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	11. Chapter 11

**Here's another. **

**Sorry about any mistakes. **

**This chapter includes violence - nothing too graphic, but just a heads up. **

John felt his jaw drop, his eyes widening in horror as his best friend fell to the floor once the support of him and his father left him. He landed painfully on his already bruised knees and John was certain he wouldn't be able to walk now if he tried. His head was bleeding rapidly, blood dripping onto the linoleum flooring of his sitting room. Sherlock leant forwards, his head resting on his wrists, his forearms trying to hold him up as a wave of dizziness washed over him, the teen retching due to the nausea it brought along with it. His bottom was raised in the air in a bid to balance him. Mr. Watson was on his knees beside the teen in an instant. It was a very rare occurrence that the man was home from work when the boys returned from school, but today he'd woken up late due to his alarm failing to go off that morning and had decided that it was pointless going in at lunch time.

The boys had been walking home, deep in a conversation about what film they were going to watch after dinner (Sherlock didn't want to watch an "embarrassing attempt at comedy" and John didn't want to watch "another crime documentary, Sherlock, really?") when a gang of bullies had jumped the youngest of the pair, knocking him to the ground. Sherlock's head had bounced painfully off of the concrete pavement, the wound beginning to bleed almost instantly. The leader of the gang turned a blind eye at the damage they'd inflicted on the poor boy and, instead, turned their attention to assaulting the teen.

John was on the phone to his father immediately. It was the first time he had witnessed Sherlock being beaten up and, in all honesty, he didn't know what to do. He winced as the largest of the group sent a vicious kick into his friend's ribs, ignoring the strangled gasp that emitted from the chemistry student. John's father was at the scene in barely five minutes and the group scrambled as soon as they saw him. Sherlock was curled up on the floor, staring up at John, a look of pained betrayal in his gaze. It was clear that Sherlock had expected John to pull them from him, maybe hit them in return.

John was about to apologise to him when Mr. Watson ordered his son to help him get Sherlock to their house. He assisted his father in lifting him from the ground and held him up as they carefully moved him down the street. Sherlock's movements were slow and sloppy, his feet tangling up occasionally causing him to trip. They were all but dragging him down the street.

Poor Sherlock was in tears. I wasn't often that the chemistry student was reduced to tears during the incident. Typically he tried his hardest to hold it together until he was far away from the bullies and safely in the presence of John. The fact that he couldn't keep his emotions under control told John all he needed to know about Sherlock's current pain level.

As soon as they entered John's sitting room, Mr. Watson ordered him to gather something to press to his head injury to try and stop the bleeding while he phoned an ambulance for him. John tended to treat Sherlock at home when he came over after being attacked, he knew that Sherlock hated the hospital, he hated the monotony of it all. But Mr. Watson was fairly certain that Sherlock's head injury was in need of stitches and wanted him to receive whatever treatment he needed.

The pair carefully moved Sherlock from his odd position, his body strangely limp as he allowed himself to be manhandled, and gently laid him on his back, John holding a towel to his head to try and stem the bleeding from Sherlock's, already bruising, head injury.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"This is unprovoked assault, John!" Mr. Watson stated, his tone deadly serious as he paced the waiting room floor, ringing his hands together. He was furious that somebody could do that to the boy that he, and his wife, had come to love. Sherlock was like a son to them, they knew just how quiet the teen was and they couldn't believe that he would have ever done something to have instigated such an attack. Sherlock had been taken down for treatment as soon as he had arrived at the hospital and both John and his father were waiting restlessly for news on him. "How often does this happen?"

"He's bullied daily, dad." John admitted, averting his eyes and focusing his gaze on his shoes. He was sat on a seat in the waiting room and had been watching his father pace. His heart was racing in his chest and his hands were sweaty but he couldn't decide whether or not he was panicked because of witnessing his friend almost being beaten to a pulp, or because he was terrified that Sherlock was angry with him. "He's physically attacked at least once a week. You're usually at work so you don't see him, he purposely waits until you leave so that he doesn't get bombarded with questions. I deal with his injuries myself, I clean him up and make sure all of his injuries are patched up and treated." Suddenly John's speech took on a pained tone, cracking slightly, "I'm his only friend, dad." A tear escaped his left eye, rolling painfully slowly down his cheek and dripping from his chin. "A-and I didn't help him. I just stood there whilst he was-whilst he was being be-eaten!"

John's speech had become uncoordinated. It was rare that he ever found himself in this situation. He always tried to hold it together, for Sherlock's sake, but knowing his best friend was lying in a hospital bed with a head injury and, very like, a number of broken bones shattered John's heart. Especially since he hadn't done a thing to help him. He'd stood like an idiot watching as his best friend was injured.

"John, stop." Mr. Watson soothed, crouching in front of his son, instinctively taking his hands in his own, a technique John had taken to using with Sherlock. "You didn't just stand there." His father's voice was firm as he looked directly into John's eyes, watching as more tears escaped. "You phoned me, remember. You _didn't_ just stand there." He repeated, giving his son's hands a firm shake. "You phoned for help. What do you think he wanted you to do? Physically get involved, risked getting yourself injured as well? What good would you have been to him then?" Mr. Watson rose slightly, wrapping his arms around his son's shaking frame as the boy began to sob. "Don't upset yourself, John. Listen to me, Sherlock is going to be fine. He'll be in a bit of pain for a few days, but he _will_ be okay."

"But wha-at if he hates me?" The final word was elongated as he sobbed into his father's shoulder. Mr. Watson pulled backwards so he could look at his son and John blinked up at him through his tears. "You should h-have seen the wa-ay he looked at me!"

"He _won't _hate you, John." Mr. Watson assured him, squeezing his son's shoulders. "You said it yourself, you're his _only _friend and only an idiot would risk losing his only friend over something that he couldn't control." Mr. Watson reached out, wiping away his son's tears before pulling him into his embrace again. "You tried to help him, John." He reasoned. "You tried to stop the bleeding. You phoned for help. He won't be angry with you." Mr. Watson's grip on his son tightened.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"Sherlock?" John's voice no louder than a whisper, his movements hesitant as he slowly pushed the door open to Sherlock's hospital room. It was a shared ward, but Sherlock was currently the only person in it. When John finally made it into the room, he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him and lingered, uncomfortably behind the door near the antiseptic hand wash. Sherlock's eyes were focused on John as he sat upright on the bed, a bunch of pillows propping him up. John felt the lump grow back in his throat, his eyes stinging as he waited for Sherlock to shout at him, to kick him out. Mr. Watson bypassed his son, instantly heading over to the hospital bed and flopping on a chair so he could speak to him. He reached out, carefully taking Sherlock's hand as he spoke.

"I've spoken to your parents," Mr. Watson wasted no time in informing him and John could see the distress appear in Sherlock's eyes, "they're more than happy for you to stay with us until you're feeling better. I'd much rather you stay with us so that I can keep an eye on you during you recovery. Is that okay?" Sherlock head moved slightly in a gesture John could only assume was supposed to be a nod. "You won't be well enough to attend school for a few days, you need that time to recuperate."

Sherlock looked awful. He'd been tended to by the doctors and his injuries had all been cleaned and dressed, but he looked terrible. His eyes held a tiredness John could not recall ever seeing before. He looked terrified, as though he was waiting for someone to hurt him again. His gaze kept jumping around the room, lingering on the door beside John like he was expecting someone to barge through it. His clothing, all but his boxers, had been removed and John was trying not to let his gaze linger on his friend's injuries. The wound on his head had been covered with a pad, protecting the 6 stitches that had been needed to close it. His chest was bandaged in order to support a few broken ribs and his right hand was in a sling, his wrist badly sprained.

"John," Sherlock spoke, causing the teen hovering in the doorway to look up. Sherlock had extended his left hand, as though trying to grab his friend from his position on the bed, "come." John did so, almost breaking into a run to cross the, admittedly small, space between them. As soon as he reached him, he saw the emotion in Sherlock's eyes change as his gaze fell on the red rims of John's own. "You've been crying." Sherlock murmured and John slowly nodded his head in the affirmative, watching as Sherlock's expression morphed into a questioning one.

"Sherlock," Mr. Watson caught Sherlock's attention and John was thankful that he didn't have to explain to Sherlock why he had been crying at that very moment, "we can take you home once the nurse has been in to examine you." He informed him, gently touching his shoulders. "I'll go and get you some water."

"Mummy knows." Sherlock whispered as soon as John's father had left the room. He averted his gaze from John's and repeated "Mummy knows, John."

"I know, Sherlock," John almost cooed, "I know." Sherlock's trembling hand was clasped in his own and John could see the tears welling up in his eyes. "But its okay, Sherlock, its okay."

"No, its not!" Sherlock exclaimed, wincing as the action made his head hurt. "Mummy knows, John." He repeated once more, a blink sending the tears cascading down his cheeks. "She knows I'm a disappointment. She knows that I'm not _perfect_."

"Of course you're not, Sherlock!" John retaliated, squeezing his friend's hand tighter. "And do you know why? Because you're _human_!" John freed a hand from Sherlock's crushing grip, leaving only one to be damaged by the male's unexpected strength, and reached out to wipe his tears away. "You're human, damn it, Sherlock, you're _human! _And that is _nothing_ to be ashamed of."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"Its alright, Sherlock," John soothed as he pulled Sherlock's duvet cover up to his chin, carefully pushing a curl away from his dressing "don't fight it." John perched gently near Sherlock's legs, trying to ensure that the young male was comfortable. He had spent the best part of 10 minutes trying to help his friend change into his pyjamas and was now trying to assure him that it was okay for him to settle down to sleep. "You're hurt, Sherlock, you're allowed to be tired." He promised, standing up and moving across the room. "Your pain relief will be making you drowsy. Just close your eyes and go to sleep."

"What about you?" Sherlock questioned as John pulled the curtains closed to block the sun set out so that his friend could get some much needed rest.

"What about me?" John responded, making his way over to his own bed.

"What are you going to do?" John just smiled softly, flicking on the bedside lamp and sitting on his own bed. The light emitting from his lamp was dim, but it was bright enough so that he could read the book he had left resting under his pillow, but it wasn't so bright that it would hurt Sherlock's head or keep him awake.

"Sleep, Sherlock," John soothed, opening his book. "I'll see you in the morning."

**For some reason, I can imagine Sherlock using his fringe to cover his scar. **

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	12. Chapter 12

**Here's another one.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

"Are you crying?" Sherlock questioned, squinting slightly as he pushed his head a little closer to John as they met in the wind tunnel. He took in John's face, his expression was clearly one of emotional upset, his eyes red from where he had been furiously rubbing at them to clear them of the betraying tears. His nose was stuffy as he tried to claim that he wasn't. "You are." Sherlock nodded, pulling his friend to the side slightly. "What's the matter? Why are you crying?" John simply shook his head, his sandy hair flicking out of position slightly as he gestured with his hand for Sherlock to walk.

"Not here." He begged quietly, sniffling. "Not now. Please." Sherlock nodded patiently, unconsciously stepping closer to John as they set off walking, taking John's shortcut, knowing it would get them to his house faster. "When we get to mine." He promised. The walk home was silent barring the jingling of the zipper on Sherlock's bag and their footsteps. Sherlock purposely refrained was questioning his friend. He knew that John, for some reason, saw crying as a weakness and, therefore, hated when he did it despite Sherlock's reassurances that it was okay.

John's hands were shaking as he fumbled with his door key and Sherlock had to step in to help him unlock the door so that they could get in. He pushed the door open, signalling for John to enter first and made sure to lock it behind them. The house was empty, Harry was over at her girlfriend's house and John's parents were at work. The silence was almost deafening as they removed their coats and shoes, making their way up to John's bedroom.

Sherlock sat on his bed, pulling his legs up and leaning his weight on his hand. John disappeared, for a moment, returning with two bottles of water and handed one to Sherlock before turning his attention to the bed and beginning to fuss with his bedding, shifting the covers so that he could sit down comfortably. He hadn't bothered to make it that morning, he hadn't slept properly anyway, the thunderstorm that had occurred that night had kept the pair of them awake.

Sherlock was growing impatient of the silence and opened his mouth to speak when he heard a sniffle escape John and witnessed as he quickly brushed his left hand across his face. Sherlock knew exactly what he was doing, he used to do it himself early on in their friendship. He was ashamed to be crying and was trying to hide it from Sherlock. There was no way that Sherlock was going to allow that. He stood from his bed, stepping a little closer to John and calling his name softly. When John turned, he almost instinctively walked into Sherlock's open arms, wrapping his own around him as his tears arrived full force. He had forgotten what it felt like to be on the receiving end of Sherlock's hugs. His embrace was tight and had a very comforting sense to it.

"What is it, John?" Sherlock questioned gently, pulling away from the hug slightly so that he could see John's face. John blinked up at him, escaping his grip and wiping at his eyes. Sherlock reached out, placing his hand on his shoulder and guiding him towards his bed. "Sit down." He gently pushed him so that the teen landed on the mattress and sat down beside him, both crossing their legs and turning to face one another. "Now, talk to me, John. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong."

"I just - I'm," Sherlock frowned slightly as John tripped over his words, his eyes flickering around the room as though trying to find something to distract him. He let out a shaky sigh, returning his gaze to the chemistry student. "I can't cope with my coursework." He muttered out an admission eventually, watching as Sherlock's right hand reached out to squeeze his knee. "I'm trying to do it, Sherlock, I am." He assured him. "But I can't. Its too hard and I'm getting more and more worked up trying to catch up with it and I can't sleep, Sherlock, and I-"

"Stop." Sherlock interjected, raising a hand as a signal for John to cease his panicked speech as he let the words sink it. John had reached out, gripping Sherlock's thin wrist as though it was a grounding stick. Sherlock observed him for a moment, taking in the cues before deciding how he could help him. Clearly John was stressed, Sherlock didn't want to make that worse, and he was certain that the lack of sleep wouldn't help him. "Why can't you sleep?" He inquired softly.

"Because I'm constantly worrying about this stupid work!" John snapped, his grip unconsciously tightening on Sherlock's wrist. He paused for a moment, forcing himself to remain calm as he told himself that it wasn't Sherlock's fault that he was struggling with his coursework. "Because I don't want to fail this course. There's _so much_ work," he stressed, "and its getting on top of me. I don't know if I can do it, Sherlock."

"Alright." Sherlock soothed, gently squeezing John's knee as he nodded slowly. He could sense that poor John was getting himself riled up again and he knew that he needed to come up with a solution. "Why don't we work out a schedule?" He questioned suddenly. "Instead of coming home and watching movies or playing board games, we can work something out so that you can spend a healthy amount of time on your coursework and get some sleep as well. And if you're struggling, I can help you."

"But what about you?" John released Sherlock's hand, wiping at his eyes in a bid to clear them of the tears so that his vision wasn't as blurred.

"What about me?" Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at John's words.

"The movies and games, Sherlock, we do that for you." John explained. "We do it to cheer you up. What if you need to be cheered up?" He questioned and Sherlock's felt something squeeze his heart at the notion. "What if you're hurt?"

"Don't worry about me." Sherlock stated, again tightening his grip on John's knee. "Focus on getting your work done because that's what's important now. I can take care of myself." He promised. "What do you think I did before you came along? John, I've been alone all of my life." He realised immediately that he should have chosen a better way to word that.

"Exactly!" John exclaimed. "But now you're not. And I don't want to be the reason that you feel like you are."

"Listen to me," Sherlock's voice was firm as he looked John directly in the eye, "your coursework is important, John, and you're not going to settle until you complete it. So that's exactly what you'll do." Sherlock smiled softly. "I'd much rather miss out on movies and games than have you make yourself unwell."

"But I can't _do_ it, Sherlock." John groaned. "I can't." He repeated before sighing softly. "I don't understand it."

"In that case," Sherlock smiled, "I'll help you. It'll provide me with something to occupy my mind, won't it? I'm perfectly capable of tutoring you. I'll help you with it. I'll help you understand." Sherlock promised him.

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	13. Chapter 13

**I know that this one is quite short, but I wanted to give an idea of Sherlock's injuries. **

**I also wanted to show the friendship between John and Sherlock and how that relationship is affected (both good and bad) by Sherlock's depression. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"Sherlock..." John's speech fizzled out as he found himself frozen midway up the stairs, his attention focused on his best friend's form. The teenage scientist was sitting on the cream carpet of the attic bedroom they shared, his attention seemingly trained on the bottom of John's bed. It wasn't the fact that Sherlock was sitting on the bedroom floor that had stumped John, he was used to Sherlock doing things like that, in fact he'd once stumbled upon Sherlock lying upside down, hanging partly off of the bed. No, it was Sherlock's state that shocked him.

The youngest of the pair was wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer shorts, he was leaning his weight against the frame of the bed, his thin legs raised into a triangular position and his hands resting on his thighs, long fingers splayed over the bare skin. Sherlock's skimpy body was littered with bruises, both old and new, and cuts in various stages of healing from the number of attacks he had endured. John had never actually taken the time to look the teen over, not after treating his injuries, he usually looked away when Sherlock was changing, or he was focused on something else.

John found himself moving slowly, his gaze roaming Sherlock's body, cataloguing the injuries. His pale skin was significantly darkened around his chest and ribcage, the bruising from his broken bones clearly not faded yet. He could see cuts on Sherlock's shoulder close to his collar bone, seemingly from a high-heeled shoe. There was another dark bruise on his stomach, just above the waistband of his boxers, of which only the top half was visible, the rest hidden by the material of his underwear. His stomach was coated with a number of faded bruises and John could only imagine the pain that came with that.

As he came nearer, he noted a number of small bruises on Sherlock's shoulder's clearly from where somebody had forcefully grabbed him. Even his legs weren't clear of injuries, there were grazes and scrapes from where he had been thrown to the floor, from where he had been tripped and pushed. John had already catalogued the injuries on Sherlock's face, nothing to worry about, just a few scrapes and bruises, but when put into perspective with his other injuries, it was clear that Sherlock must be regularly in a great amount of pain.

Sherlock's head was bowed when John finally reached him, but the aspiring doctor had already seen the tears shimmering on his cheeks. He lowered himself to his knees in front of his friend, kneeling in the space between his legs and gently raising his head with his finger under his chin so that he could see his face. Sherlock was distraught and, when he looked up, clearly in the middle of an emotional meltdown. His mouth was open slightly, his face screwed up as though he was screaming silently and his breathing was irregular.

"What on earth is the matter?" John questioned, instinctively reaching up to run his fingers through his best friend's curls. Sherlock's skin was slightly clammy to the touch and John refrained from grimacing at the feeling of sweat in Sherlock's hair. The detective whimpered, the sound sort of like a half-hearted squeal, as he breathed out slightly, shaking his head furiously. "Talk to me, Sherlock," John cooed, running his right hand down Sherlock's cheek in a bid to soothe him, "let me help." Sherlock hiccoughed slightly, his thin hands jumping from his thighs and fisting into John's jumper.

"Sherlock, please." John cooed, moving so that he was sitting beside the aspiring detective. He threw his right arm over his shoulder, pulling him towards his frame, his left moving to rest gently across his collarbones, his hand flicking up slightly to rest on the side of Sherlock's head as he sobbed slightly, his chest heaving painfully. John could have kicked himself, he'd known that poor Sherlock was feeling depressed that morning, he could see it in his eyes, and still he chose to go out with his girlfriend instead of remain at home and comfort his best friend. How long had Sherlock been sitting on the floor? How long had he been in tears? "Please talk to me. I want to help."

"I can't," Sherlock's voice was strained, his words more of a breath than a whisper - barely audible, and he shook his head, the curls tickling John's neck as he pushed himself closer to him, "I can't, John." Sherlock whimpered again, his hands moving upwards so that they were covering his face slightly, his fingers folded, the knuckles pressing into his eyes.

John tightened his grip on Sherlock's body, his way of assuring him, telling him that it didn't matter, that words weren't important. The squeeze meant a lot to Sherlock, he'd already explained that to John. "It communicates your understanding," Sherlock had explained, "whilst you may not understand the cause of my pain, you understand my need for your presence. Whilst I may not be able to speak, to verbally convey my needs or my thoughts, it assures me that you don't need it, that I don't have to explain myself to you." Sherlock pushed himself closer still, wrapping his own arms around John, his tears still falling rapidly, his chest heaving, sniffles ringing in the silent room as John buried the tip of his nose in Sherlock's hair.

John lost track of the amount of time he and Sherlock spent on the bedroom floor folded in an embrace that afternoon, but he knew that Sherlock's tears appeared to take an age to stop. When his crying had finally ceased and he had regained his strength, the pair shifted onto Sherlock's bed, sitting beside one another, reinitiating the embrace and relaxing into one another's grip. Sherlock rested his head on John's shoulder, his emotions still raw and his eyes still shining slightly and John unconsciously massaged his ribs, quietly reassuring him that he was there. He was there to look after him, to support him, to be a shoulder for the younger male to cry on.

**Thank you for reading. I'd love to read your thoughts and, although I know I've said this before, I'm open to prompts for this or my other stories. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	14. Chapter 14

**Here's another - this time its a sick fic. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"Sorry," Sherlock excused a belch, covering his mouth with his hand momentarily as he leant backwards into the desk chair he'd been sitting on, trying to make the action appear casual. They'd been working on John's study techniques and he'd been testing John on the terminology that he needed to know. He arched his spine slightly, stretching out his abdomen and rubbing at his stomach gently in a bid to try and ease out the ache that had made an unbidden appearance there. He returned his attention to John, raising another flashcard and asking John to define the word that he had written on it. John shrugged off Sherlock's odd behaviour, knowing that he occasionally suffered from stomach aches as a result of stress or strong emotions. He noted down the word that Sherlock was presenting to him, jotting down a quick definition and reading it out to the teenage scientist who raised his hand, his palm flat and facing downwards with his fingers splayed, and teetered it from side to side in a seesaw motion, a small shrug accompanying his 'comme ci, comme ca' gesture. "Close. See if you can see where you went wrong."

Sherlock took in a deep breath in an attempt to will away an odd sensation of nausea that had suddenly appeared and forced himself to focus on helping John. He swapped cards, holding another up to the medical student, his eyes scanning the definition on the back as he waited for him to read the word on the front. He could feel his stomach rolling as bile began creeping up his throat and swallowed roughly, trying to keep it at bay as he watched John make his notes. If he could get through this tutoring session then his body could do what it wanted, but he needed to get through this for John. His eyes scanned the room as John read through his definition, trying to locate a safe container to vomit in if it came to that. His eyes fell onto the bin near John's bed and he let out a gentle sigh of relief that he had something he could use.

Sherlock slowly nodded his head in the affirmative as John read out the correct definition to him, not quite trusting himself to speak, and switched cards. He turned the chair so that he was facing John and extended his legs, lowering himself in the chair slightly, stretching himself out more in a bid to relax and ignore his body's apparent need to reject the contents of his stomach. Sherlock watched John, noting how his eyebrows furrowed and he tapped his pen on his bottom lip before scribbling down a definition, his eyes dancing over it before he read it aloud to Sherlock. The aspiring detective shook his head, realising that his friend had just given him the definition to the keyword he had presented to him at the beginning of the session.

"Wait, wait," Sherlock spoke, almost wincing at how shaky his voice sounded, but he wouldn't risk clearing his throat, "think about that one. Which keyword does it fit?"

"Are you okay?" John questioned, frowning slightly in concern as soon as he heard the abnormality in Sherlock's speech.

"Fine." Sherlock lied, pointing to John's notebook and gesturing to the definitions he'd been writing down. "Definition." He stated to get him back on track. "Which keyword does it fit? Read back through the words that you've defined and try to match the definition to the correct word." John's gaze lingered on Sherlock's pallor complexion for a moment before he returned his attention to his scribbled notes, reading and rereading the words in order to try and figure out which one was correct.

"That one?" He questioned, catching Sherlock's expression and reading the word out to him. Sherlock nodded, making a quick note on his own stack of paper to revise that one with John.

"You're doing well." Sherlock noted as he counted the number of ticks on the page, tallying them up in his notes for comparison during future sessions. "You've got the majority correct, now we just have to focus on righting the ones that are incorrect. There are only a few more left before we can move on to testing your use of the ones that you know." Sherlock finished speaking, just as his stomach gave an uncomfortable roll and he found his left hand tightening on his knee, his right clutching the pen as he closed his eyes, trying to will away the bile that was slowly rising up his throat. He swallowed again, relaxing slightly as he succeeded in putting the inevitable off a little longer.

"What's the matter?" John, who had been observing Sherlock through his predicament, questioned. Of course, the medical student had an idea of what was distressing his friend, but he didn't want to jump to conclusions, Sherlock wouldn't approve. The teenage scientist mumbled something that Sherlock didn't quite catch and John leaned a little closer with a questioning "hmm?"

"I said I need to vomit." Sherlock repeated in a whisper, not quite knowing why he had lowered his voice.

"Shall I get you the bin?" John questioned, readying himself to push his chair back as Sherlock shook his head.

"Lets just focus our attention on this. Here," He switched the cards, holding another out to John who trapped his bottom lip between his teeth, eying Sherlock cautiously, "do you know this one?" Sherlock prompted and John hesitantly returned his attention to the card. John scribbled down an answer, reading it out to Sherlock who shook his head with a soft sigh. "You know that one's wrong, John, don't you?" Sherlock questioned, watching as John nodded softly. "So why did you write it?" John shrugged his shoulders softly. "Try again, and think about it this time." John lowered his head, averting his gaze and Sherlock could have kicked himself. It wasn't John's fault that he was struggling. Sherlock placed his hand on his friend's arm, softening his voice. "Listen, I know that you know this. You just need to think about it. Think carefully."

Sherlock's stomach suddenly gave a very violent lurch and the chemistry student found himself dropping the flashcards he had been holding onto the floor, letting them scatter around his feet, his hand shooting upwards to cover his mouth. John dropped his pen on the desk, pushing his chair backwards, his notes forgotten about. He ran across the room to retrieve the bin from near his bed and returned, thrusting it under his chin as Sherlock turned his head, his body jerking forwards as his stomach forced its contents out of him with an awful retch. John made certain that Sherlock had a good grip on the waste basket before he scurried across the room, grabbing the bottle of water that Sherlock had left on his bedside table.

"Do you want to stop?" John questioned as his friend rinsed out his mouth, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

"No." Sherlock shook his head, leaning over to place the bin on the floor beside him, gathering up the flashcards whilst waiting for John to continue the definition for the word he had given him previously. Sherlock fumbled through the cards, his hands shaking slightly, to put them in the right order. He couldn't miss the worried glances that John was sending him but, somehow, managed to steer him in the right direction and the pair had soon finished the flashcards and were moving onto usage of key terminology when another strong wave of nausea hit Sherlock and sent him reaching for the bin in a panic.

"Sherlock," John watched as the teen in question spat into the waste bin, reaching for his water, "I really think we should stop now. Its not we've only been working for a short time, we've been at this since we came home from school at three, haven't we? Its almost ten now," he informed him, glancing over at his alarm clock, "and we both need to sleep." Sherlock nodded slowly, a sense of tiredness suddenly washing over him as he raised the bin up to his chin once again.

John carefully rubbed his friend's back before setting about packing up the study equipment and leading Sherlock to his bed, both boys already dressed in their bedclothes, ensuring he was settled down before climbing into his own. He rolled onto his side, unconsciously keeping an eye on his, apparently ill, friend as he drifted off to sleep.

**Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you think. **

**Sorry if there are any mistakes I've missed. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	15. Chapter 15

**Sorry its been so long since I last updated. I've been busy. Here's another one-shot. I apologise that it's short.**

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"Sherlock," John perched on the edge of Sherlock's mattress, narrowly missing sitting on Sherlock's hand as he did so. He reached out, gently combing his fingers through Sherlock's unwashed and tangled curls, trying to smooth them out a little. "Its been 3 days since you last ate. You must be starving." He noted, trying to meet his friend's gaze. The teenager in question slowly shook his head, purposely avoiding any eye contact John attempted to initiate. "I know you're not feeling very well. I know that you're in pain." John acknowledged, unconsciously allowing his hand to drop from his friend's hair and rest, instead, on his pyjama clad chest. "But you need to try and eat something. Just something small?" John suggested, watching as Sherlock scrunched up his nose, as though disgusted by the idea. "Some toast or crackers? Sherlock," He sighed softly when he shook his head again, "please?"

John's left hand was working to try and soothe his friend, rhythmically dancing in circles on his chest, the sound of his hand rubbing against the fabric oddly reassuring to his own ears. He tilted his head to the side slightly as he observed his best friend. Sherlock's typically pallor complexion appeared to be even paler than usual as he lay on his bed, partly covered by his dark duvet. His gaze seemed uncoordinated, his eyes hazy and watery and whenever he accidentally made eye contact with John, it felt as though he was staring straight through him.

Sherlock had been very out of sorts since his most recent run-in with a bully. John wasn't unused to Sherlock being a little jumpy or hesitant following an attack, but for him to be so subdued and to be blatantly refusing to care for himself made John worry about Sherlock's mental health. Since returning from school that Tuesday Sherlock had been obviously shying away from John, creating a remotely large gap between them whenever John had joined him on the bed or the sofa. Sherlock had been uncomfortable around John for a good few hours before that had suddenly transitioned into starting violently at any sudden noise or movement.

John was always prepared to deal with the pain that accompanied a beating. He always had pain relief and a bottle of water on hand for his friend and was prepared to help him navigate the house if he found he was in too much pain to support himself. He wasn't, as it happened, prepared to deal with Sherlock beginning to disassociate himself from the situation. He hadn't eaten dinner that evening. In fact, he hadn't even attempted to eat dinner. He had just lain himself down on the floor of their shared bedroom, his head resting on the carpet by the wardrobe and his body stretched out, his arms flat by his sides. He completely blanked John whenever he tried to speak to him and John, admittedly disconcerted, phoned his father for help. Mr. Watson had come home and Sherlock had ignored him as well.

John was beyond worried. The medical student felt physically sick as he observed his friend. Sherlock had acted weird after an attack before, of course he had, but he had never gone this far. He had never openly ignored John's attempts at helping him.

It wasn't until around 10pm that night he had started to react again. John had spoken to him, telling him that he should probably get ready to go to bed. Sherlock had responded to John's voice and began to follow his regular nightly routine. But John knew that it wasn't Sherlock standing in front of him as he changed into his pyjamas. This person just looked like his best friend. Sherlock was oddly subdued when he returned from the bathroom and, judging by his somewhat puffy lips and damp thumb, John was sure Sherlock had been attempting to self-soothe. He'd clambered into his bed, rolled onto his side so that he was facing the wall and proceeded to ignore his friend all over again.

That was three days ago. It was now late on the Thursday night and Sherlock was still acting out of character.

"Sherlock," John's voice held a tint of desperation as he begged his friend, "please, just try and eat something. For me? Even a smoothie will provide you with some kind of nutrition and its better than nothing." John felt himself sigh as Sherlock simply closed his eyes, turning his head away slightly. "Well, whenever you feel like eating, you know where the food is." John rose slowly, slightly dejected that his concern hadn't appeared to have worked. He turned to leave, ready to make his way down the stairs from his bedroom when he felt a cold hand clamp weakly around his wrist and turned back to see Sherlock staring directly at him, his eyes suddenly clear and focused.

"Strawberry and Banana." Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse from its lack of use.

"Hmm?" John furrowed his brow slightly, wanting to make the most of Sherlock's communication.

"Smoothie." Sherlock elaborated, his right hand rising to rub at his eyes. "Strawberry and Banana would be lovely."

**Thank you for reading. I'd love to know what you think about it.  
ibelieveinguardianangels **


	16. Chapter 16

**A kind of heart-to-heart between John and Sherlock. Sorry its taken so long for me to update this. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

"This is nice." Sherlock smiled as he and John lay side by side on the neatly mowed lawn, eyes closed against the sunlight. They were lying close together, arms touching as they relaxed. "I admit that its been quite a while since I've actually enjoyed being outside." He admitted, casting a shy glance towards John who was watching him, clearly waiting for him to elaborate. "Mummy cannot abide us spending time on the lawn. We can sit on the garden chairs on the patio or sit in the conservatory but we must not go on the grass. I would never be allowed a trampoline." Sherlock noted, nodding to the caged trampoline at the bottom of the garden. "And the idea of playing, well, mummy wouldn't hear it. We're far too old to play." He referred to himself and his brother. "We've been far too old to play for a long time now." John fought back the urge to remind Sherlock of his age as his friend continued. "I'd love to be allowed to relax and just 'be' like you can. It would be wonderful to turn off my mind and rest."

"You _are_ allowed." John smiled reassuringly at him. "When you're here, Sherlock, you don't have to be a robot. You don't have to be a machine. When you're here you can be as human as you want to be." John watched as Sherlock rose from his lying position and crossed his legs, fiddling with the grass in front of him. "You can play," he nodded to the trampoline, "or relax. You can laugh or cry. There are no stupid expectations here, Sherlock. There's nothing that you have to live up to. All we ask is that you're a nice person, that's it." John sat up and mirrored his position. "You don't have to be the perfect son or star student. You don't have to show off your intellectual superiority." John reached out, placing his hand gently on Sherlock's back for a moment. "You just have to be Sherlock. Because that's all we want." He removed his hand, following Sherlock's lead and playing with the blades of grass. "You can gorge yourself on junk food until you develop a stomach ache," He continued, nodding to the packets of crisps that John had brought out for them, "or you can sleep until the afternoon." He looked up towards Harry's bedroom window. "You don't have to eat the healthiest options and awaken at 6:30 everyday. Not when you're here. We don't expect that." John promised.

"Singing is forbidden in the manor." Sherlock noted in a solemn voice as he remembered how he had heard John belting out "Hit Me Baby One More Time" by Britney Spears the previous morning. "God forbid anyone hears our out of tune attempts at shredding modern day hits." Sherlock sounded like he wanted to laugh but, for some reason, it wouldn't come. "No." He shook his head. "We listen to classical music or opera." Sherlock informed him, looking towards him. "And we _must_ speak correctly. None of that "gonna" or "gotta" - it's "I am going to" or "I have to"." John nodded, noting how Sherlock did speak correctly. It made him feel a little intimidated if he was honest, especially when Sherlock threw around his extensive vocabulary. "Mummy would throw a fit if we even dared to nod or shake our heads. Or shrug our shoulders for that matter. In Holmes Manor, we have to use our words."

"Were you ever allowed to just be a kid?" John questioned, watching as Sherlock looked up from the grass he was twiddling in his fingers and shaking his head.

"Oh no." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "We had strict schedules from an early age. Up at 6:30 on the dot, downstairs for breakfast by 7. From 7:30 to 8am we would work on bettering our musical abilities. Father would take us into his music room and we'd work tirelessly. From 8am we would change into our uniforms, wash and take care of ourselves before 8:45. Then we'd get into the car to be driven to school. As soon as we returned from school we were at the kitchen table completing our studies and would stay there until it was done perfectly. No mistakes allowed. Mummy would oversee our work. Following that we would change into our everyday clothing, for me that was my shirt and trousers, for my brother it would be his suit. He's quite a bit older than myself. Dinner would consist of only the healthiest and best foods available and our elbows must not make contact with the table." Sherlock looked up, his eyes dancing around the garden as though he was trying to distract himself which, John reasoned, he probably was. "After dinner we would complete our chores. That included cleaning our bedrooms and ensuring that the house looked presentable should anyone visit. Father would ensure that it was done perfectly whilst mummy prepared supper. We would go down for supper at 9:30pm and by 10pm we were in bed, lights our by 10:15."

"You weren't read bedtime stories?" John questioned.

"Oh, God no." Sherlock shook his head. "My brother and I both possess an intellectual superiority to those of our age group. By the time I was 5 I was educated enough to read novels had I been permitted to do so. Mummy saw things such as bedtime stories a waste of her time because we had such high IQs. Mummy and Father worried more about ensuring we remained smart and that we had everything we needed to survive rather than ensure that we knew we were loved. They wanted to make the house perfect and show off our money and their genius children. They didn't have time to cuddle with us or tuck us in at night. I had so many nannies whilst growing up that I never really formed a bond with my mother and father." Sherlock looked over to see John watching him. "How about you?"

"Well, I must admit that my routine was a lot more relaxed than yours." John noted. "Up around 8, breakfast, teeth, clothes and out of the house by five to nine." He noted Sherlock's questioning glance. "I lived around the corner from my school." He explained. "When I was back from school I would do any homework I'd been given. My mum would help me if I got stuck. Then it would be dinner at the same time we have it now. Bath, TV or a game, teeth and then bed between 8 and 9 with a story somewhere in there." John shrugged, he looked over at Sherlock again, noting his face morph into his 'close-to-tears' expression. "Aw, don't look like that Sherlock. Our families are completely different." He reached out, gently rubbing the space between Sherlock's shoulder blades.

"I'll bet that you were never reprimanded so harshly for accidentally spilling a glass of milk that you made yourself vomit from crying." Sherlock mumbled, clearly jealous of John's loving upbringing. "I was five." Sherlock noted. "And the glass was wet, it slipped clean out of my hands and smashed on the kitchen floor. The milk ran through from the linoleum flooring to the carpet and mummy went ballistic." Sherlock sighed shakily. "I was terrified."

"My mum's policy is 'accidents happen'. Dad doesn't care as long as its cleaned up." John reached out, gently touching Sherlock's shoulder. "But you're here now, with me. And you can enjoy yourself as much as you want too." John attempted to reassure him. "Why don't we go onto the trampoline?" He questioned, trying to distract his friend. He watched as Sherlock hesitated, eying the trampoline before slowly nodding his head, clambering to his feet and following him. The pair bounced for a while before sitting opposite one another in the centre of the trampoline bed, legs crossed and knees touching.

"Thank you." Sherlock smiled softly. "I really enjoyed this." He admitted.

**Thank you for reading. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	17. Chapter 17

**I know it's short, but this is kind of a filler chapter to make up for the amount of time since I last posted. I've run out of pre-written one-shots now so I'm writing them as I go along, that's what's currently taking me so long to post. Thank you, if you're still reading. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

Sherlock was lost in his thoughts as he kicked off his shoes, hanging his coat up and flinging his satchel over his shoulder to take into his bedroom. He ensured his shoes were placed perfectly on the wrack before he grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and dragged himself up the multiple staircases to his top-floor bedroom. He dropped his satchel on the floor by the window, grabbed his pyjamas and stripped of the clothing he'd worn to school. He deposited of his clothes in the laundry basket he kept in his bathroom and quickly burrowed under his covers, pulling the bedding over his head, leaving himself lost in his thoughts.

John, Sherlock's only friend, had a girlfriend now. He'd been telling him about her the night before. In fact, she was all John had spoken about the night before. He kept telling Sherlock how beautiful she was, how nice she was and how she was also planning to become a doctor. He'd brought her along with him at lunch time to the place he and Sherlock usually met. Sherlock, disheartened, had excused himself and gone to the science labs to conduct some kind of experiment.

Sherlock was almost certain that John wouldn't want him hanging around now. He wouldn't want him in the way. Sherlock knew that, if things were going well, he'd want to bring her home with him and the last thing he would want was Sherlock taking up space in the bedroom when he was trying to get intimate with her.

Buried under the covers, Sherlock forced himself to swallow back his tears. He should have known that the friendship wouldn't last. He couldn't help but wonder why he had let himself get so invested? He shouldn't have trusted him like he did.

Sherlock was wondering whether John would contact him or not. They had planned for Sherlock to stay over at John's house again. Sherlock wondered whether John would notice he wasn't there, or whether he would be too busy with his new girlfriend. Sherlock had walked home alone through a number of back alleys, taking numerous detours to avoid the bullies that he knew would be lurking, waiting for him. He hadn't bothered to wait for John, he didn't see the point.

He must have fallen asleep, he realised, as he was awoken by a persistent knocking on his bedroom door. Sighing, he rubbed at his eyes with balled fists and pulled himself from the comfort of his duvet to answer the door, glancing at his alarm clock on his way by. It was only 4:30, he hadn't been sleeping very long. He didn't know who he expected the see, the housekeeper perhaps, but no. When he pulled open his bedroom door, his eyebrows furrowed as he took in the figure before him.

John.

"Care to explain why you're here and not at mine?" John questioned as he stepped into the room as Sherlock moved aside to let him in, pulling the door open further. "I was waiting for you, did you know that?" Sherlock shook his head. "I was standing in the wind tunnel like a loon waiting for you." John sat down on Sherlock's desk chair as the teen dropped onto his bed, running his hands through his curls. "And here you are, curled up in bed."

"I thought you'd be with Rachael." Sherlock murmured, his tongue darting out quickly to wet his lips. "I didn't think you'd want me there."

"You thought I was replacing you." John concluded, watching his friend nod. "Sherlock, you dope," John moved over to the bed, sitting down beside Sherlock and throwing an arm around his shoulder, "you're my best friend. I would never replace you. Now, are you getting changed or are you walking to my house in your pyjamas?"

John watched as a smile painted Sherlock's lips, the grin spreading until Sherlock's teeth were visible.

**Thank you for reading. **

**As always, feedback is welcome and appreciated. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	18. Chapter 18

**This was prompted/suggested by, and is therefore dedicated to, **Hummingbird2**, I hope this is, at least, close to what you were hoping for. **

**There are **3** updates today. This is the first. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

The teenage genius' thin, pale hand raised up quickly to cover his mouth as his usually pallor complexion adopted a reddened tinge with the realisation of his mistake. Expecting to be reprimanded for his faux pas, or at least reminded that Mrs. Watson was John's mother and not his own, Sherlock found himself struck dumb when he noticed a fond smile playing on the lips of both John and his mum.

"It's okay," John assured his best friend as he realised that the youngest of the pair was expecting his words to elicit trouble of some degree. The medical student had intended to step forwards and comfort him, but was beaten to it by his mother who stepped forwards and enthusiastically engulfed the skimpy male in a suffocating hug.

"That," Mrs. Watson spoke up, tightening her already-tight-enough-to-be-uncomfortable embrace on her son's best friend, "was adorable." John couldn't miss the way Sherlock's lip curled up in disgust as he appeared affronted at being dubbed 'adorable'.

Catching Sherlock's confused glance, an expression that didn't usually cross his features, John cast him a smile before stepping towards him and carefully laying a hand on his upper arm.

"Sherlock," John spoke, his voice soft as he promised the detective that "you didn't do anything wrong. You're not in trouble."

"I'm not?" The aspiring detective questioned with a frown, the unusual confusion still playing on his features.

"Of course you're not in trouble, Sherlock," The boy in question didn't need to see Mrs. Watson's face to know that she was smiling, "calling me 'mummy' isn't something to be punished for." Mrs. Watson gently patted Sherlock's back before pulling away from the embrace, placing a soft kiss on the teen's cheek. "Now go on, you two, off to bed, it's late."

His cheeks still flushed and warm to the touch, the mortified teen almost ran up the stairs to the attic bedroom he shared with John, the medical student hot on his tail.

"I think you made her day." John commented, biting back a laugh as Sherlock attempted to hide himself under his covers.

"I called her 'mummy'." Sherlock pointed out in a flat tone.

"And she loved it," John climbed into his own bed, letting out a light-hearted giggle before flicking off the bedside lamp. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

**Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	19. Chapter 19

**Here's another update. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

"Are you falling asleep?" John inquired softly as his best friend's head drooped once again, it having done so a few times since they had sat down at the dining table, this time coming dangerously close to landing in the chocolate oatmeal Mrs. Watson had prepared them both for supper. When the aspiring detective didn't respond and his head remained bowed, his chin resting against his chest, John reached out and gently poked him in the ribs, watching as he awoke with a start.

Now more alert, Sherlock looked around, noting through his bleary vision that both of John's parents were staring at him with worried expressions, and he couldn't miss the amused smirk on Harry's lips. It was one of the very rare occasions where John's entire family was home in time to have supper together and the last thing that the youngest in the household wanted to do was unintentionally ruin it.

"Are you hungry, Sherlock?" Mrs. Watson questioned as John instinctively moved Sherlock's untouched oatmeal out of the firing line should he fall asleep again. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders slightly, trying to force his lead-weight eyelids to stay open.

"Sherlock, if you're not hungry, you're more than welcome to go to bed." John assured him, touching his shoulder to try and use stimulation to keep him awake.

"It's only just 8 o clock." Sherlock argued, but his drooping eyelids and suddenly to-heavy head undermined his argument.

"Okay, it's bedtime, Sherlock," Mrs. Watson ordered softly, rising from her place beside her husband and all but lifting the exhausted teen from his seat and up the stairs to the bedroom he shared with John. Sherlock leant against Mrs. Watson as she guided him over to his bed and was out like a light by the time she had lowered him onto his bed, pulling his duvet over him and ensuring that he was tucked in, placing a soft kiss against his hairline.

John looked up at his mother with a questioning glance as she re-entered the kitchen, clearly worried about his friend.

"He was asleep before his head even touched the pillow." She informed him with a fond smile, settling herself back down beside her husband. "The poor boy. Why on earth was he so tired, John?"

"Stress-related stomach cramps kept him awake for the most part of the night." John explained. "He spent a lot of time in the bathroom. I think a good night's sleep will do him wonders."

"John, can I ask you a favour?" Mr. Watson questioned as he finished his supper, when his son raised an eyebrow, he continued. "I think it might be in Sherlock's best interests that when he wakes up with those cramps, you come and get me. I can give him something to soothe his stomach so that he can sleep. I might even be able to prescribe him something to take on a regular basis to control them."

"That's a waste of time unless you can give him something to stop his nightmares." John grimaced, recalling waking up to Sherlock sitting up in bed sobbing, clutching at his stomach, the events of his nightmare still playing in the back of his mind. Spinning his spoon around in his remaining oatmeal John let out a sympathetic sigh.

"What _have_ they done to that poor boy?" Mr. Watson questioned rhetorically, referring to the bullies. When the meal was finished and the clock stuck 10, John made his own way up to bed with warnings from both his mother _and_ father to make sure he didn't disturb Sherlock. The boy in question was sock on, lying on his back, the duvet up to his chin and his stocking free feet poking out of the bottom.

John couldn't help but smile at the sight of his best friend so relaxed.

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	20. Chapter 20

**I'm not sure whether the prompter for this story wants to be named or not, so I will keep them anonymous and say that this chapter is dedicated to them and thank you for suggesting it. I hope this is what you were looking for.**

**This is the last of today's 3 updates.**

**Sorry about any mistakes.**

Sherlock let out a gasp as the top of his head collided painfully with the unexpectedly sharp corner of the picture frame that hung in the Watson's sitting room, baring a photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Watson, John and Harry from when John was young. The sudden impact sent the ornament clattering to the linoleum coated floor, the glass shattering as soon as the two surfaces met and the wooden frame splintering, tearing in image inside.

The hand that had automatically shot up to his now throbbing head came away, turned red with blood, as the lady known as John's mother headed across the room towards him. Mistaking her concern for anger, Sherlock bent slightly, his hands shifting downwards to protect his upper thighs, it not being the first time he was physically punished for an accident like this. In fact, John had witnessed it once.

"Sherlock, you're bleeding." John noted from behind him, his voice tinted with worry as he also stepped forwards, closing what little space the aspiring detective had created between them. Sherlock flinched violently when a hand appeared on his upper arm, tensing up as he prepared himself for the whack to the back of his legs that he was anticipating.

"Sit down, Sherlock," Mrs. Watson's voice was unexpectedly gentle as she reached out, guiding the frightened teen towards the sofa and crouching in front of him as he perched tentatively on the edge of the seat cushion, "whilst John goes into the kitchen and gets the first aid kit so that we can see to your head."

Poor Sherlock was trembling as he waited anxiously for John to return, flinching once again as he began to tend to the wound on his head as Mrs. Watson spoke softly to him. When it was decided between John and Mrs. Watson that the injury didn't require stitches, Mrs. Watson shifted so that she was sitting beside him on the sofa, carefully rubbing his back in a soothing manner as the teen's shock wore off and was replaced with the tears both John and his mother had prepared themselves for.

"Sherlock," The medical student spoke as he took his mother's place in front of the young genius, "it was an accident, that's all." He assured him. "It's nothing to get upset about."

"John's right, Sherlock," Mrs. Watson noted in a tone she hoped would reassure the boy, "my husband and I can buy a new picture frame and the photograph is only a print out, I have a digital copy and can easily replace it." Mrs. Watson, realising her reassurances weren't having any effect, wrapped an arm around him, pulling him closer. If he hadn't been quite so tall, Mrs. Watson would have shifted him onto her knee. Careful to avoid catching the injured area of his head, she combed her fingers through his curls, her free hand moving repetitively up and down his arm.

"Sherlock," John spoke up once more causing his friend to look down at him, "nothing bad is going to happen." He promised, carefully massaging his knees in an attempt to help calm him down. "The glass will be cleaned up. A quick run over with the vacuum will make sure that there are no shards left. The picture will be replaced and the damaged frame will be thrown in the bin."

"It was an accident." Sherlock whispered through his tears in a voice that sounded so young, Mrs. Watson wanted to cry for him.

"Yes," John agreed with a nod, "we know. Which is why it will be cleaned up and forgotten about."

"No fighting?" Sherlock questioned.

"No, Sherlock," John promised, "there will be no fighting."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Watson called softly, still systematically massaging his arm as she continued to hold him close, "why don't you let John get you a glass of cold water and then go upstairs and freshen up, hmm?" She asked. "Go and wash your face. Some cold water will do wonders for your sore eyes. I'll deal with the frame." She smiled, not missing the soft smile that graced his lips as she placed a comforting kiss against his hairline.

"Come on, Sherlock," John stood, waiting patiently for the teen to join him, "lets get you some water."

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	21. Chapter 21

**This chapter was suggested/prompted by, and therefore dedicated to **Tamuril2**, I hope this is what you're looking for. Thank you for the suggestion.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

"I'm sorry, Mummy," Sherlock stammered, his voice weak, as he found himself backed up against the wall to the Watson's sitting room. His mother, who had been invited to a meal that evening, was absolutely furious with the teen who she deemed was her "clumsy offspring" and Sherlock, expectedly, was terrified. Mrs. Watson and John were standing in the kitchen, not quite registering what was happening as Sherlock pressed himself up against the wall, clearly trying to get as far away from his mother as possible.

The poor teen had made the mistake of accidentally bumping into a cabinet that the Watson's kept in their dining room as he was helping to clear the table, the sudden jolt caused the flower-filled vase atop of the wooden cabinet to rock, falling from the top and onto the floor. Whilst the vase remained undamaged, the water had spilled out and the flowers had slipped with them, leaving an orange dust laying in the dirty flower water.

Both Mrs. Watson and her son watched in horror as Sherlock's mother stepped forwards, closing the space between herself and her obviously frightened son, grabbing him roughly by his upper arm and pulling him away from the wall. Mrs. Watson's initial shock at the manhandling of her son's best friend quickly transitioned into a feeling of anger as Mrs. Holmes laid a few short sharp slaps across the back of his thighs in quick succession as though he was a disobedient child in need of punishment.

With tears from his now stinging legs streaming down his cheeks, Sherlock made to crouch down, to follow his mother's orders to clean up the mess, but was stopped as Mrs. Watson stepped forwards.

"No," She stated firmly, gesturing to Sherlock as he looked up at her, "come here." Clearly still scared and expecting further punishment, Sherlock quietly did as he was told, fiddling with his fingers as he bowed his head. To say that he was surprised when Mrs. Watson wrapped an arm around his thin waist and pulled him close to her was an understatement. "I _do not_ agree with hitting children." Mrs. Watson stated, her eyes hard as she regarded Sherlock's 'mummy'. "You are a guest in my home and I _do not_ want any violence here, particularly not towards your own son. What just happened here was an accident, Mae, and _did not_ justify physical punishment."

"My son needs to be taught right from wrong-," Mrs. Holmes began to defend herself, only to be interrupted by an angry Mrs. Watson.

"And how is that working out for you?" She questioned with a raised eyebrow. "Look at him," She pointed to Sherlock with her free hand before placing it gently on his chest, feeling his heart pounding rapidly beneath her touch, "really look at him. You don't have a disciplined son here," she stated, pulling him closer still, until their hips were touching, "you have an anxiety riddled teenager who is petrified that he will not live up to your ridiculous standards. You have this beautiful gift, this wonderful young male, and he is frightened of making the slightest mistake, he's absolutely terrified of failure."

Mrs. Watson couldn't miss the anger blazing in Sherlock's mother's eyes as she continued to try and comfort the poor boy.

"Your son is a _genius_, Mae. And I would love to know what you're doing to accommodate that. How do you think shoving him into an extravagant manor filled to the brim with antique artefacts and things bought for extortionate prices that the poor boy is scared to touch in case he breaks them is going to help?"

"Sherlock is my son and I shall raise him how I feel necessary." Mrs. Holmes argued as poor Sherlock trembled against Mrs. Watson's side, forcing himself to ignore his oncoming stomach cramps as a sense of nausea rose up, his legs continuing to sting.

"Not in my home you won't." Mrs. Watson stated simply, her grip tightening on the boy in an attempt to calm him. "Sherlock is a wonderful boy and I'd be more than happy to call him my son. You have a remarkable child here and it's not fair that he's constantly on edge to ensure that he doesn't make a mess or a mistake because he's scared of the repercussions. Look at him," She stated against as Sherlock continued to cry, his chest heaving against her hand with his irregular breathing, "he's in a state all because of an accident. He's hurting because he was punished for an accident that could have happened to anybody. John," Mrs. Watson gestured for her son to join them, "take Sherlock upstairs, get him some cold compress for his legs."

"And what exactly do you expect him to learn from that?" Mrs. Holmes questioned as John mimicked his mother's position at Sherlock's other side. "What lesson do you expect to be learned from soothing him?"

"There is no lesson to be learned here." Mrs. Watson stated, watching as Sherlock was guided up the stairs towards John's bedroom. "He doesn't need to learn a lesson. You, on the other hand, do."

"Excuse me?" Mrs. Holmes questioned, affronted.

"Its time that you learn that accidents are just that - accidents." Mrs. Watson stated as she leant against the draining board. "Do you _really_ want your son growing up being scared of making mistakes? Do you want him growing up believing that he has to try and fulfil the idea of being perfect?" Mrs. Watson let out a sigh. "Does having money and showing it off really have to mean that your child's happiness comes second?"

"Sherlock's happiness does _not_ come second."

"Yes, it does." Mrs. Watson nodded, folding her arms across her chest. "When you have a son who is more worried about possibly damaged flooring or damaged vases and photo frames than he is himself when he's injured. That shows me that his priorities are not where they're supposed to be." Mrs. Watson nodded her head in the general direction of the stairs. "Your son is terrified whenever he makes a mistake that he's going to be reprimanded or punished. He's riddled with anxiety and depression and somehow your furnishings and petty arguments come before his feelings. When does it stop, Mae? When do you realise that Sherlock is a very troubled young man?"

"Why would it bother Sherlock? It never bothered Mycroft." Mrs. Holmes attempted to reason, only to have John's mother shake her head at her.

"Sherlock and his brother are two entirely different people and it's unfair of you to compare them. Sherlock is sensitive, Mae, and he has a lot going on in his life." Mrs. Watson explained, knowing that this debate was coming to an end when she turned slightly, her foot turning in the general direction of the door.

"I'm not going to stand here and allow you to tell me how to raise my own son." Mrs. Holmes argued before turning fully and leaving the house without even a thank you for the meal. Mrs. Watson instinctively headed up the stairs to check on the boys, finding Sherlock who had cried himself to sleep resting on his stomach with his hands buried under the pillow and John sitting cross legged on his own bed, reading.

**I decided to name Mrs. Holmes Mae, mainly because I love that name. **

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	22. Chapter 22

**This is the aftermath of the previous chapter (in a sense, at least) and was once again suggested by, and dedicated to, **Tamuril2**. I hope this is what you were looking for. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

"He's my _friend_, mummy." Sherlock emphasised as he stood from his seat at the dining table, leaving his half-consumed strawberry and banana smoothie there and moving towards the door, clearly planning on leaving his mother to her own devices, only coming to a stop when she spoke once more from the opposite side of the kitchen. He turned, folding his slender arms across his white-button-down-shirt-clad chest as he regarded her.

"He's _using_ you, Sherlock." Mrs. Holmes argued, placing down her damp dishcloth and mirroring his defensive position. Her teenage son had finally returned home after staying at the Watson's, three days after the argument between the two mothers. "Can't you see?! He's _using you!_" Throwing her arms in the air to convey her exasperation with her son's apparent blindness, she returned her attention to pointlessly wiping down the already immaculate work surfaces. "He doesn't care about your friendship, Sherlock, he cares about good grades. He knows that you're a genius and he's using you for your intellect." Mrs. Holmes decided, hearing Sherlock tut behind her. _"Why can't you see what's going on?!" _She suddenly bellowed, turning around and watching as her son jumped at the sudden change in volume. "He's not your friend, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes repeated, her voice significantly calmer, "friends don't hurt each other."

At that Sherlock shook his head, his black curls bouncing as he did so.

"You're wrong, mother," Sherlock stated, raising a slightly trembling hand to point at her, "he hasn't hurt me. He hasn't lain a finger on me."

"Not yet, Sherlock, but both you and I know that it will happen eventually." Mrs. Holmes noted, sounding somewhat nonchalant.

"You're wrong." Sherlock repeated, as though trying not only to convince his mother but to convince himself too. "He wouldn't do that, we're friends." He repeated and Mrs. Holmes could see the doubt suddenly etched in his features.

"No, Sherlock, you're not." Mrs. Holmes argued, stepping closer to her son, her eyebrows knitting together as he took a step backwards, clearly making a point of keeping the space between them. "I apologise, Sherlock. I am aware that it seems as though I'm the one in the wrong, as though I'm trying to turn you against him, but I just want you to see what's going on under your nose."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, turning his back towards her, "you're wrong. John wouldn't hurt me." Sherlock's voice dropped to a whisper as he left the dining room, making his way towards the multiple staircases that led up to his bedroom. "You have to be wrong."

"You're like you brother, Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes called, knowing that her son could hear her word for word whether he chose to ignore her or not, "you're different Sherlock and people don't like those who are different. It's only a matter of time before they grow bored of you just like they did with Mycroft."

"No," Sherlock shook his head as he pushed open his bedroom door, heading to his bathroom and locking the door behind him, sitting down on the floor and leaning against the bathtub, allowing his hands to snake up into his hair, "I'm not like Mycroft."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"Sherlock, this is getting ridiculous," John growled as he followed him, trying to figure out why the aspiring detective was giving him the silent treatment. Reaching forward he gripped Sherlock's coat covered Shoulder and spun him around so that they were facing one another, "what the _hell_ is going on?"

"Why don't _you _tell _me_?" Sherlock snapped, his usually sad eyes blazing with an anger than John couldn't recall ever seeing before as he scoffed at the medical student's confused expression. "How long, John?" Sherlock questioned vaguely, watching John's frown deepen. "How long were you planning on pretending to be my friend before you decided that it was time?"

"Pretend?" John inquired. "Time? Time for what? Sherlock, what are you talking about?"

"Just how long were you willing to play this game before you decided that it was time to hurt me?" Sherlock surged forwards suddenly, grabbing John by the collar with a strength that stunned him momentarily. _"How long?!" _

"Sherlock, I don't know what you're talking about." John attempted to placate him whilst trying to uncurl his fingers from around his collar. "I'm your friend, Sherlock, I thought we'd got that settled." John referred to Sherlock's ambiguity when it came to trusting him.

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock growled, pulling John closer to his face. "Use everything that I told you against me? Are you going to join the others in beating me up?" Sherlock's grip began to loosen on his collar and John managed to pull his fingers away, taking a step backwards and straightening his clothing. "Which is it, John?" Sherlock questioned, clearly becoming desperate.

"Sherlock," John breathed, having to force himself not to comfort the angry teen, "what on earth are you talking about? I don't understand what's going on, what have I done wrong?"

"You're _using_ me, John!" Sherlock yelled through gritted teeth, tears suddenly beginning to blur his vision.

"Where did you get that idea?" John questioned, thoroughly confused, "Sherlock, whoever it is that's put this thought in your head, they're-,"

"Lying?" Sherlock laughed at the notion, a bitter sound that sounded more like a bark as a stray tear rolled down his cheek. "I knew you were going to say that."

"Sherlock, please, you have to believe me. I _am_ your friend!" John promised. "I would never hurt you. And I don't understand where this is coming from. Please, just, tell me who told you this." John almost begged, feeling himself begin choke up as he pleaded his innocence. "Sherlock, they're lying. You _have_ to believe me. Would you really believe-,"

"My mother." Sherlock interjected before he could finish his question.

"I'm sorry?" John questioned, a sense of dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

"My mother." Sherlock repeated. "It was my mother. My mother is the one who told me." With the truth out, Sherlock found himself flinching as he saw an anger rising in John's eyes. His usually calm blue seas became stormy and his hands clenched by his side. However, the punch that he was expecting failed to come and, instead, John grabbed Sherlock's hand and dragged him down to the Watson's household where he knew that his own mother would be.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

"It's absolutely ridiculous, Sherlock," John was grumbling as he kicked off his shoes and removed his coat, noting how Sherlock instinctively did the same thing, "she's outright lying to you, Sherlock, why would she do that? Why on earth would she _want_ to hurt her own son?" He questioned as they made their way towards the dining room. "Mum!" He called as they entered.

Mrs. Watson poked her head from around the edge of the storage cupboard with a tub of gravy granules in her hand. Noting immediately how upset both her son and his best friend were, she stepped out of the room, removing her cooking apron and discarding the gravy as she made her way towards them.

"What is it?" She questioned softly, cupping Sherlock's cheek with one hand and John's, admittedly tubbier one, with the other.

"His mother has been lying to him, mum." John informed her, sounding absolutely outraged with the fact. "She's been telling him that I'm using him, that I'm just pretending to be his friend. Why would she do that, mum? Why would she lie to him like that?" Suddenly, Sherlock was thankful that he had refrained from telling John that he'd been up for the better part of the night crying silently to himself in the bathroom.

"Clearly she's angry with us," Mrs. Watson inferred, "and I can only assume it's because of mine and her argument a few days ago. She's trying to turn him against us. But it's not true and it's not okay for her to do that. It's not okay for her to make you feel this way, Sherlock, honey, you do know that, don't you? You know it's not true?" At this Sherlock averted his gaze, suddenly finding his socks interesting. "Oh, Sherlock." Mrs. Watson breathed out.

"He wouldn't talk to me all day, mum." John was crying now. "I didn't know what I'd done wrong. Why would anyone purposely say something that they know will hurt their child?" Mrs. Watson stepped forwards, wrapping her arms tightly around her son as he sniffled into her shoulder. She rubbed his back briefly before pulling away from the hug and placing a kiss to his cheek, just in front of his ear.

"Let's go on upstairs and into your bedroom, yes?" She suggested, clearly talking to both of the boys. Switching off the oven, Mrs. Watson guided the distressed teenagers upstairs, not forgetting to grab the box of tissues from her own bedroom. "Look around you, Sherlock," She waited until he had done so, "what do you see?" Sherlock failed to respond. "If we were going to hurt you, honey, do you really think we would have bought you a bed of your own? Would you be allowed to store your clothing in his wardrobe? Sherlock, sweetheart, John is your best friend, hmm?" She reached out, embracing him momentarily. "You want to be a detective, don't you?" At this he nodded. "Tell me, then, which conclusion do all of these clues point to?"

"That I was wrong." Sherlock whispered as another tear fell from his damp eyelashes.

"No, sweetie," Mrs. Watson shook her head, "that your _mother_ was wrong. Chose a bed and sit down together," Instinctively, the pair headed over to Sherlock's bed, climbing on and sitting side by side, both leaning against the wall and picking at their fingernails. "Boys," Mrs. Watson knelt down on the floor at the side of the bed, placing a hand on both of their legs in a bid to bring them comfort. "Mrs. Holmes is clearly angry with me for arguing with her and, therefore, is trying to hurt the both of you as a way to get to me, do you see?"

"But why?" John questioned innocently.

"She doesn't like to be wrong." Sherlock smirked at the notion despite the warm tears that continued to fall past his swollen cheeks. "Sherlock, sweetie, John _is_ your friend and he cares for you _very_ much." She promised, squeezing his leg gently. "I can see that it must hurt to be told by your own mother that somebody is conspiring against you, but you have to believe me, love, it's not true. And John," She squeezed his leg gently before beginning to massage both of their legs to try and calm them down, "Sherlock didn't mean to upset you. He was just confused."

"But he really thought I would do it." John whimpered.

"You have to understand that Sherlock isn't like you, baby." Mrs. Watson cooed. "You're used to having friends and you make them very easily. Sherlock doesn't have that luxury and he's _so_ used being bullied."

"I didn't want to believe it," Sherlock whispered, "but she made it seem so true."

"Sherlock, sweetheart, can John and I ask you a favour?" Mrs. Watson questioned softly, smiling at him as he nodded his head. "If you every feel this way again, love, if you're _ever_ questioning your friend, just come and talk to John. My son _isn't_ a bully, Sherlock, and he would never purposely upset you." She promised, standing up slowly and gesturing for the boys to make a space for her. Settling down between them, she wrapped one arm around Sherlock and the other around John, pulling them close and allowed them to lean against her. "Do you think you can stop crying now?" She questioned both males.

"Please don't ring my mother." Sherlock whispered. "I don't want to go back tonight."

"You don't have to." John promised, reaching out and holding Sherlock's hand for a moment. It wasn't long before both boys had drifted to sleep against Mrs. Watson and the lady simply took out her mobile phone and sent a message to her husband explaining that dinner was going to be late tonight.

**Thank you for reading. **

**Feedback is welcome and appreciated. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	23. Chapter 23

**This was prompted by **Tamuril2 **who wished to see bonding between Mr. Watson and Sherlock. I hope this is what you were looking for.  
I've chosen to name Mr. and Mrs. Watson Jerry and Amelia.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

As he rested his hand on the teenager's shoulder, he let out a soft sigh. Poor Sherlock's entire upper body was tensed up, his shoulders raised towards his jaw line and his body hunched over slightly. The Watson's had made it compulsory that Sherlock and John alert the adults if Sherlock is suffering. John wasn't in, currently, he'd accompanied his mother to a tour around Bart's as a possible medical student and Sherlock had come seeking Mr. Watson's help on his own as a result of a stomach ache.

Guiding him over to the couch in the sitting room, Mr. Watson spoke softly;

"You're so tense, Sherlock, there's no wonder why you're in pain. Lie down, son."

Once Sherlock had settled himself on the sofa, Mr. Watson joined him, placing a medical bag on the floor beside him as he knelt down on the linoleum flooring, readying himself to assist the boy in any way he could.

Mr. Watson reached up, carefully beginning to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, revealing his bruised chest and abdomen as he did so. Suppressing another sigh, the doctor said;

"Sherlock, it's essential that you try and relax. I'm going to go and get a hot water bottle for you. Hopefully it will soothe your stomach."

And with that Mr. Watson disappeared into the kitchen, retuning with a hot water bottle wrapped in a fuzzy blue case. Approaching the sofa, he handed it to the teenager, allowing him to situate it on his own abdomen, ensuring that he'd begun to relax.

"Sherlock, it's imperative that you tell myself or Amelia when this happens." Mr. Watson noted, gesturing to Sherlock's chest and ribcage. "That way we can help you sooner, can't we? Hmm?"

Having returned to his position on the floor, Mr. Watson extended a hand, burying it in Sherlock's hair and gently scratching his scalp.

"I don't want to cause trouble." Sherlock mumbled as his eyes began to slip closed.

"Nonsense." Mr. Watson reprimanded softly, bringing up his right hand to ruin his forefinger down Sherlock's cheek. "I'd much prefer you come and tell us rather then suffer in silence. At least that way I can get on to treating your injuries and trying to relieve your pain much quicker, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded in response, but he seemed unsure.

"Listen, Sherlock," Mr. Watson removed his hands from Sherlock's head, reaching into his medical kit and retrieving some kind of cream which he began to apply to Sherlock's tender, bruised chest, "forgive me if this comes across as curt, but have you ever received therapy?"

"Therapy?" Sherlock inquired, opening his eyes and squinting at Mr. Watson massaged his chest. The doctor nodded in response to his words and said;

"You're a teenager who suffers with severe anxiety and depression. It might do you some good to have someone to speak to."

Mr. Watson moved on to massaging the boy's upper arms.

"Seems pointless to me. I speak to John." Sherlock noted offhandedly, waving his hand flippantly and closing his eyes.

"Yes, you do." Mr. Watson agreed, nodding at the teen despite knowing that he couldn't see him. "And I'm very pleased that you're able to speak to my son about this. I just thought that a professional might be able to provide you with some more support..."

Mr. Watson didn't even get to finish his thought before Sherlock was shaking his head.

"Therapists are just a waste of time, Mr. Watson - Jerry," he amended, opening his eyes and noting the man's look, "they pry into other people's business and ask leading questions to which the answers make it seem like there's something wrong with you." He shook his head again. "It's a waste of time. I wouldn't speak to them. Besides, my parents would never pay for therapy."

At this Mr. Watson frowned, casting Sherlock a questioning glance.

"Imagine if their friends found out that their youngest son was mentally unstable. It could ruin their reputation."

"You mean to tell me that your mother and father wouldn't be willing to get you help because it could damage how their friends would see them?"

"Mr. W - Jerry," Sherlock sighed, "my mother and father pride themselves on how they seem to others. They have built up a reputation as the rich parents of two meticulously behaved genius offspring with a flare for music. Essentially, my brother and I are designed to be how _they_ want us to be." Sherlock glanced up at the man. "To spend money on something like that would not only lower their admittedly generous riches but also mean they would need to admit that there was something wrong with their _perfect_ son."

Mr. Watson smiled sadly at Sherlock, lifting the hot water bottle and massaging his stomach.

"You're wise beyond your years, Sherlock." Mr. Watson stated. "I don't know how to feel about that. Amelia and I would happily pay for therapy for you."

"I couldn't allow you to do that." Sherlock shook his head. "Charity is neither something my family needs nor accepts."

"It's not charity, Sherlock." Mr. Watson stated, looking up and meeting the boy's eyes. "It's myself and my wife wanting what's best for you."

"Sorry, but the answer's no." Sherlock sighed. "I don't want to." He admitted finally.

"Alright," Mr. Watson nodded. "Alright."

Wiping his hands clean, he reached out, pulling the teen into a hug.

"Remember, if you ever want to speak to someone who isn't John, Amelia and I are always here for you." He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to his hairline.

**Thank you for reading. **

**I'd love it if you let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	24. Chapter 24

**I wasn't sure about bringing Anderson and Donovan into this, but when I received an anonymous review containing the prompt; **"John could intervene when Sherlock is being beaten up, and result in some targeting from the bullies for being the freak's friend"** I figured that I could mix it with another prompt from **Tamuril2** that simply said **"Anderson and Donovan. Make them the bullies. Make me hate them".

**So this chapter is dedicated to both the anon and **Tamuril2**. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"Freak!"

Imperceptible to anyone else, John witnessed the slight wince that shuddered through Sherlock's frame as he tensed up and his eyes slid closed momentarily. This was the first time that John had _ever_ witnessed a 'corridor incident' and he registered as the bullies, none other than Philip Anderson and his unfaithful girlfriend Sally Donovan, approached that Sherlock succumbed to whatever they threw at him.

Sherlock's entire body was stiff as he turned on the spot to see the pair heading down the corridor towards him, clearly ready to start something.

"You shouldn't answer to that, Sherlock." John hissed at the younger male as he turned to see the pair coming towards them. "It gives them power over you."

John purposely shifted closer to Sherlock as Anderson and Donovan advanced. He was mere millimetres away from him as the couple came to a stop before them.

It was a typical bullying situation. The childish "what have you been saying about me?" and "well so-and-so told so-and-so, that you said to so-and-so that I...,".

John couldn't suppress the sigh at the infantile games that they were playing.

"Sherlock," John nudged the chemistry student, purposely speaking over Donovan and making a show of using Sherlock's given name, "let's go."

The boys turned to walk away but only made it a few steps before Sherlock was suddenly jerked backwards, a hand grasping at the strap of his backpack. John reacted so quickly that Sherlock could almost _see_ him in his chosen profession as a soldier.

Within seconds, the hand had been ripped from Sherlock's backpack and Anderson, the culprit, had been pushed roughly into the wall behind him. As Anderson fought to regain the breath that had been startled out of him on impact, John reached up and gripped his face by the jaw and squeezed.

"Are you listening to me?" John growled, giving Anderson a quick shake to ensure that he was paying attention. "You are to leave Sherlock alone from now on. Yes?" No answer. "_Yes?_"

The grip on Anderson's jaw tightened until he nodded. After gaining the nod, John let go of him.

"You're defending the freak?" Donovan questioned, incredulous, as Anderson rubbed at his throbbing jaw. "Why would _anyone_ defend the _freak_?" She spat.

John, taking the high road, chose to ignore that comment and led Sherlock through the emptying corridors and to the year leader's office.

"Why are we here?" Sherlock questioned, suddenly extremely nervous.

"I'm reporting what I did to Anderson before he and Sally have the opportunity to spin their web of lies around it." He explained. "Don't look so worried, Sherlock."

Anderson finally got over his shock at being attacked by John and once the bruises on his face had faded, he turned his attention from Sherlock to John.

Because, apparently, no-one could be friends with the freak.

**Thank you for reading. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	25. Chapter 25

**As usual, sorry any mistakes. **

**I can't believe I've got almost 70 reviews! That's amazing. Thank you all. **

Sherlock didn't bother to look as he felt a figure sit beside him on the green bench. Instead, his beautiful eyes, layered with sectoral heterochromia, focused on the numerous leaves that the strong wind was sending whirling around him and the large droplets of rain that were landing on the skin of his bare arms. Numerous shivers ran through his thin frame courtesy of the cold breeze that accompanied the dark clouds.

There was only a select few that would sit with him on a metal bench in the centre of a play area during a thunder storm.

Not a word was exchanged between them for a significant amount of time before the silence was finally broken by his companion.

"John's worried sick at home, Sherlock." Mr. Watson informed him in a soothing voice, clearly content enough to be sitting with him in the pouring rain. "You concerned us all when you ran out like that. I had to hold him back to prevent him from coming after you."

Sherlock still didn't speak. Instead he simply shrugged his shoulders, his eyes still trained on the destruction the weather was causing.

"Do you want to tell me what upset you so much?" Mr. Watson offered, shifting a little closer to his son's best friend, reaching out a hand and placing it on Sherlock's leg, just above his knee.

Sherlock still refrained from speaking and moved his eyes so that they were focussed on the nearby tree, observing the leaves as the wind tore them from their branches.

Mr. Watson fell silent once more, leaving the offer there should Sherlock decide to talk.

"He was bullying John," Sherlock spoke eventually, so softly that his voice was nearly lost to the wind, but Mr. Watson just about heard, "because he stood up for me."

Sherlock bowed his head once he'd finished, beginning to play with his fingers, his hands resting on his damp jeans. He bent them backwards, one by one, listening as they cracked. He continued systematically flexing his fingers despite the fact that the cracking and popping had stopped long ago, as he avoided eye contact with Mr. Watson.

"I don't want John to go through that." Sherlock spoke again. "Not because of me."

Mr. Watson's comforting left hand shifted from Sherlock's upper leg to a position resting gently on the teen's back between his shoulder blades. He massaged the area slightly as his right hand reached out to Sherlock's lap, coming to rest atop of his hands to put a stop to the repetitive contorting of his knuckles and prevent him from harming himself.

"Sherlock," Mr. Watson spoke softly, trying to coax the male into the looking up at him, "you're not to blame and John would be very annoyed to know that you think you are. He's capable of looking after himself and if they become too much for him then he'll do something about it. If he can't deal with it on his know, then he will come to me and allow me to do so. Yes?"

"He shouldn't have to put up with it at all. It's not his problem and they don't need to involve him." Sherlock sighed. "Why didn't he just leave it be? I was fine coping with it on my own."

"He wanted to help you, Sherlock. That's what friends do." Mr. Watson explained. "He stood up for you to show the bullies that you're no longer alone. Because you're not alone anymore, Sherlock. You have us now."

"Now he's going to have to put up with their taunts, Jerry." Sherlock sighed softly. "What if they start hurting him like they do with me?" Sherlock inquired, finally looking up at the man. The Watson's had been in to the school to try and get something done about the bullies, but it seemed that even the teachers weren't the biggest fans of Sherlock.

"They would only make that mistake once." Mr. Watson noted. "John will show them exactly where to get off. I promise, Sherlock, you have _nothing _to worry about."

Another silence encased the pair, broken after a few seconds by a sound that was undoubtedly a sniffle. Mr. Watson applied a slight pressure to Sherlock's shoulder and the teen fell into him, his sniffles transitioning into sobs.

"Let's go home, Sherlock." Mr. Watson spoke softly after Sherlock was all cried out, wrapping an arm around him as they walked out of the park, making their way back to the Watson's household where John was waiting worriedly for him.

**Thank you for reading. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	26. Chapter 26

**I have a few of these written out, they just need editing and posting. I hope to do that today. This is the first of three updates.**

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

Sherlock startled himself into wakefulness with a scream, no doubt disturbing poor John in the process. He pushed himself into a sitting position, allowing his multi-coloured eyes to dart around their shared attic bedroom as his heart pounded painfully in his chest, thudding against his rib cage. His breathing was uneven and rapid, tears falling from his eyes as he used his suddenly weak, trembling arms to hold himself up.

"Sh'lock," John's slurred speech and tired voice in the silence following the nightmare startled the teen and he jumped, turning in the direction of John's bed. Within seconds, the beside lamp had been flicked on, the light flooding the room, and John was crawling from his bed, moving over so that he could sit on Sherlock's.

John could see the teen shaking as he slowly lowered himself back against the pillow, throwing his left arm over his sore eyes and laying his right on his sweat soaked t-shirt over his stomach. His breathing was still irregular, his heartbeat erratic as he tried to force down the sobs that were rising.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, clearly more alert as he saw the state his best friend was in. He reached out from his position beside Sherlock's legs and placed his open palm on Sherlock's stomach to gain his attention. "Nightmare?" He inquired, watching Sherlock nod from behind his arm.

John began to carefully move the hand that was resting on Sherlock stomach, trying to bring him some kind of comfort. After a few moments of John trying to soothe the still crying teenager, there was the unmistakeable sound of footsteps on the stairs leading into John's bedroom.

"Boys?"

The word was spoken in a whisper and Mr. Watson walked into the room, casting his eyes over the pair and coming to a stop at the end of Sherlock's bed.

"He had a bad dream," John explained softly and Mr. Watson reached out, touching the arm that was hiding the top half of Sherlock's face from view.

"Sherlock, son, look at me," Mr. Watson soothed, "I want to see you."

Sherlock slowly lowered his arm from his face, his watery eyes shifting in his direction. Mr. Watson smiled sadly at him, gently running his forefinger down Sherlock's cheek to wipe away the fallen tears. The teen's chest was rising and falling unevenly, his breath hitching in his throat as he continued to fight off the sobs.

"I know nightmares are awful, but it's just a dream, yes? It's not happening now and you're safe here with us." Mr. Watson promised him. He reached up to run his hand through Sherlock's damp curls. "What was that?" Mr. Watson inquired as Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible.

"My stomach hurts." He repeated in a whisper, a lisp suddenly making an appearance.

"Cramps?" Sherlock nodded at Mr. Watson's inquiry. "Shall I go and get you a hot water bottle?"

"It hurts." Was all Sherlock said.

And with that, Mr. Watson had disappeared down the stairs, returning a few minutes later with a hot water bottle and some Ibuprofen. He had Sherlock sit up to take the pain relief and then handed him the hot water bottle which Sherlock curled himself around, holding it to his stomach.

It didn't take long for the aspiring detective to fall back to sleep and when he did Mr. Watson made sure John was settled before smiling sadly at both the boys, flicking off the desk lamp and leaving the room.

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think.**

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	27. Chapter 27

**This the second of today's **3 **updates.**

**Sorry for any mistakes. I believe this was prompted by **Tamuril2**. **

"Happy Birthday," John greeted, encircling his arms around his thin friend's waist as they met at the end of the school day. John had intended to meet with Sherlock that morning, but he'd had to arrive late due to a dental appointment, "what do you have planned?"

"Planned?" Sherlock questioned, his eyebrows knitting together as he pulled back from the hug. His hands fell by his sides as he frowned at John.

"Yes, Sherlock, it's your birthday." The aspiring doctor noted, his expression matching Sherlock's. "Aren't you doing anything special?"

"Should I be?" Sherlock's frown deepened as he stared at John.

"Yes." John nodded.

"Well," Sherlock's frown relented, "my parents are working, so I wouldn't hold your breath."

"In that case, come over to my house." John smiled softly at him. "The least you can do is spend your birthday with your friend."

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

The second that Sherlock entered the kitchen of the Watson household, he was crushed in an extremely tight hug courtesy of Mrs. Watson.

"Happy Birthday, love." Sherlock felt heat rise to his cheeks as she pulled back from the embrace. "John text us. I know you're not a big fan of parties so Jerry and I have just set up a simple barbeque for you in the backyard." She smiled. "First, however, we got you a gift."

The last thing Sherlock expected when he tentatively removed the wrapping paper from the boxed gift was a fully functional 'detective' kit. It was a black fold up case that would fit easily in his pocket, containing a small magnifying glass, tweezers and little evidence bags.

"We know it's not much, Sherlock" Mrs. Watson spoke, "but we thought it might help to set you off on your way with your chosen career as a detective."

"Thank you." Sherlock breathed, winding his arms around Mrs. Watson's waist.

After a minute or two, Mrs. Watson pulled back from the hug and clapped her hands.

"Garden." She ordered, pointing to the back door.

Mr. Watson was in the garden, poking at a piece of meat on the grill with a barbeque fork. He turned upon hearing voices and waved the fork as a greeting.

"Ten minutes and these will be ready to eat." Mr. Watson informed as they sat down at the garden table.

**SH-SH-SH-SH**

Sherlock, clad in his pyjamas, entered the sitting room where John, Mr. Watson and Mrs. Watson were all sitting, their attention on the television.

"Thank you," Sherlock spoke softly, Mr. Watson muting the TV as soon as he'd opened his mouth, "for today."

"We weren't going to let you spend your birthday alone, Sherlock." Mr. Watson soothed, reaching out to where Sherlock was standing and gently touching his arm. "We wouldn't do that to you."

"My parents are working." Sherlock informed watching as John smiled sadly in his direction, "They were out when I awoke this morning and no doubt will still be out now."

"Sherlock, sweetheart," Mrs. Watson spoke, beckoning him with a wave of her hand "come over here."

Sherlock did as he was told, sitting in the space the two adults provided for him between them.

"I can assure you, your birthday will always be remembered here."

She wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to her frame and pressing a soft kiss to his hairline. Sherlock eventually fell asleep in that position leaving Mr. Watson to carry him up to bed.

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please leave a review. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	28. Chapter 28

**This paragraph deals with drugs and the use of drugs. **

**This is the final update today.**

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

There was something different about Sherlock today. Mr. Watson knew it as soon as he entered the house with John but he couldn't quite figure out what it was. At least, that was until Sherlock turned to look at him and met his gaze. Sherlock's eyes said it all; they were heavy lidded and from far off he looked exhausted, but the added extreme dilation of his pupils told Mr. Watson, a doctor, all he needed to know.

"John," Mr. Watson spoke, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and pushing him towards the kitchen, "go to your room. I don't want you to come downstairs until we shout you. Yes?"

John's facial features contorted into a look of confusion but he nodded. His father was being deadly serious and John knew that there was definitely something amiss. Once Mr. Watson was certain that John was out of the way and out of earshot, he turned on Sherlock.

Immediately, he buried his hand into Sherlock's pockets, keeping a tight hold on him so that he couldn't run away and, when he found what he was looking for, he pushed him towards the kitchen table.

"I suggest you sit down and you do it now." Sherlock, knowing that he was beaten, did so. He dropped heavily onto the seat and Mr. Watson leant over the table, placing the little bag of white substance directly in front of him. Mrs. Watson stood in the doorway, blocking his exit, and folded her arms across her chest. "A drug addict is _not_ somebody that I want my son around, Sherlock."

The teen in question flinched slightly. As if the harsh, reprimanding tone Mr. Watson was using with him wasn't bad enough, when he slammed his hand on the table to get his attention as it wandered, Sherlock almost wet himself.

"My John is a highly intelligent boy, Sherlock," Mr. Watson stated, "and the last thing that I want to happen is for him to be influenced by you in this way." He gestured again to the packet. "I will not allow him to lose sight of his dream. Do you understand?" Mr. Watson, not receiving a reply, repeated it with a harsher undertone.

"Yes, sir." Sherlock nodded, averting his eyes.

"Sherlock, you are more than aware that we love you and we care about you. The very last thing that we want to do is terminate your friendship with John." He stated. "But, if you do not give this up," he raised the bag, "I will do just that."

At this, the aspiring detective started. His eyes widened as he raised his head to meet Mr. Watson's gaze.

"Drugs, Sherlock?" Mr. Watson questioned, running his hand over his face as he relaxed his tone. "You're a genius, surely you know what this stuff will do to you. Why would-"

"I'm _constantly _thinking." Sherlock interrupted him, beginning to tap his fingers agitatedly against the table top. "I can't look at someone, or something, without seeing _everything_. It's exhausting. I needed a break. And that's exactly what the drugs gave me." Sherlock defended himself.

"Surely there's another way to help you." Mrs. Watson suggested softly. "Something that isn't illegal or harmful?"

Sherlock shrugged in response, seemingly uninterested in coming up with another way to deal with his problems.

"It's either you find something else or I take matters into my own hands and terminate your friendship." Mr. Watson stated firmly. "I do not want you around John until you're clean. The decision is yours."

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please review. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	29. Chapter 29

**This is set before recent developments in the storyline and is more of a flashback to early on in John and Sherlock's friendship. I like to think that this was John's visit to Sherlock's home referenced in an earlier chapter.**

**Sorry that this chapter is so short. **

**This was prompted by, and is therefore dedicated to, **Jade Johanson**, I hope this is close to what you were hoping for. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

"Who's this?"

The aspiring detective turned away from his desk, where he was making both himself and John a cup of tea, to face his friend. As soon as his gaze fell onto the framed photograph in John's hand, his expression fell, transitioning into one of hurt. His eyes dulled, their colour fading.

In John's hands was a framed photograph of an Irish Red Setter.

Beside the dog was a young Sherlock. Little Sherlock was clad in a pair of green shorts and a white button down shirt, similar to the ones he still wore today. His small arms were wrapped around the dog's neck as he knelt on the floor, his face pressed into his fur.

Sherlock discarded the cups, reaching out a hand and removing the photograph from John's grip. He ran the index finger of his right hand over the dog in the photograph.

"Redbeard." He whispered, his eyes flicking up to look at John. "I had him since I was three. He passed away just before my 11th birthday." Sherlock explained, his eyes flicking back down to the picture before returning to meet John's gaze. "It's never been easy for me form attachments. When I began showing signs of being unsociable, my parents bought me a friend. He was put down due to ill health at the age of nine."

Sherlock lowered his eyes, focusing on the picture in his hands as he swallowed roughly.

"Oh Sherlock," John breathed as he watched the corners of Sherlock's mouth tug down into a pout, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He made to step forwards, getting ready to hug his friend, but Sherlock moved backwards.

"Sentiment." Sherlock grumbled, shaking his head and reaching up a hand to wipe away the tears that had yet to fall. "So," he placed the photograph on his desk, "biology. I agreed to help."

**Thank you for reading. I'd love to know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	30. Chapter 30

**Okay, so, something tells me that you're probably going to murder me when I tell you that I've had this chapter sat waiting to be edited and posted for quite a while now. But life got in the way and I never got around to doing so. **

**I've been tied down with coursework and assignment work since starting my new college course and I've also been ill and unable to concentrate on much. I was told on Monday that I have pleurisy and pharyngitis so I'm not in the best of mindsets right now, but I couldn't leave you waiting any more. **

**Here's chapter 29 and I'm **_**so**_** sorry that it's so short. I hope no-one finds it disappointing. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

Mr. Watson soothed the teen as they perched on the end of his bed in the bedroom he shared with John. The doctor's hand was massaging the teenager's neck, playing with the tuft of hair at his nape, as he held the bin under his chin. There were tears pouring down Sherlock's cheeks as John's father tried to hold him close without imposing on him.

The poor chemistry student was crippled with intermittent tremors and his too-thin frame was littered with goose bumps. His head was pounding and his body aching from the futile attempts he was making to put a stop to the uncontrollable shaking.

From his position beside the boy, Mr. Watson could feel his heart racing, pounding against his chest and rebounding off his ribs.

John was hovering in the doorway, watching with wide eyes as the effects of substance withdrawal took over his friend's body. He watched with his mouth agape as his best friend shook, sweat mixing with the tears pouring down his face, matting his usually fluffy curls to his forehead, despite the shakes wracking his body.

"I know it can't be nice, Sherlock," Mr. Watson murmured, his mouth close to Sherlock's ear, "but it will pass." He assured him. "It _will_ pass." He repeated earnestly. "And you made the right decision." Mr. Watson shifted his hand, moving it from the teenager's hair and rubbing Sherlock's back.

The teenager had opted, in light of possibly losing his _only_ friendship, for quitting the drugs and both Mr. and Mrs. Watson were very proud of the boy. He'd sought the help of the adults in doing so and, of course, Jerry was more than happy to take some time off of work to help him through it.

Both adults had sat John down to discuss with him what was going on with Sherlock once the aspiring detective had made the decision to give up the drugs.

They didn't, however, mention the ultimatum.

**Please let me know what you think and thank you, as always, for reading. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **

**And I know I've said this before, but I'm really struggling with ideas for Teenlock and because I don't want to leave it on hiatus, I would **_**love**_** it if you could send me some prompts for it. Anything (within reason)! I'll try and do what I can with them. **


	31. Chapter 31

**So, I've been trying to figure out how to work Lestrade into this story for a while, and **Elektra Elentari **provided me with the perfect opportunity when she mentioned wanting to see Molly. Therefore this chapter is dedicated to **Elektra Elentari**. **

**Sorry it's so short.**

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

"I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade," The inspector introduced himself, holding his hand out for the teen to shake. Sherlock did so, albeit rather hesitantly. "We don't often receive requests for work experience here. I take it you're interested in crime?"

"Obviously." Came the teen's short response after he released the DI's hand and buried his own back into the pockets of his jeans.

They walked side-by-side as the aspiring detective was led through the seemingly never-ending halls of New Scotland Yard by Lestrade who was chattering away to him all the way. He was gesturing to rooms, telling Sherlock what went on in there and who was who.

"Often we collaborate with St Bartholomew's hospital. I hear that your friend has a placement there." Lestrade noted and Sherlock automatically assumed that he was speaking of John, who was actually balancing two placements at once. He was working part-time at St Bartholomew's and part-time at the local Army Cadets.

But then Lestrade continued his 'observation' with;

"She's a lovely young girl."

And poor Sherlock was left very confused.

"She?" Sherlock inquired, his eyebrows knitting together as he met Lestrade's gaze.

"Yes," Lestrade nodded, "a miss Molly Hooper."

"Oh!"

Sherlock's facial expression fell into one of realisation and he focused his attention back on the floor.

"Molly's not a friend, Detective Inspector, she's merely infatuated with me."

Molly Hooper was the year below Sherlock. She had brown eyes and mousey brown hair that was usually pulled up in a high pony tail and could typically be found wearing one of the lab coats from the science labs. She had accidentally stumbled across the teen in the science department one lunchtime whilst she was searching for some supplies she needed for her biology assignment.

Ever since that day, she had smiled bashfully, stammered and embarrassed her way through greetings every time she saw him.

"Yes, I can see where you're coming from." Lestrade noted, leading the teen through to his newly acquired office, having spoken to Molly after discovering her in the morgue at St Bartholomew's when he had gone to collect some DNA results.

Their conversation, if it can be called that, ended there and, after a lot of nagging, Sherlock was presented with a pile of cold cases so that he could prove to Lestrade what he was capable of and show him that he wasn't just another wannabe.

Lestrade was left speechless by the boy's undeniable talent and Sherlock left his placement with the words;

"There's always a job here for you in the future if you need it."

**Thank you for reading, please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	32. Chapter 32

**Firstly – wow. How on earth did this story reach 90 reviews? And that's not to mention the 27 favourites and 43 followers. Since I didn't think that anyone would like this story, its left me a little bewildered to realise these. **

**Secondly – my apologies about the lack of updates. I've been ill for the past (around) five weeks which means that I'm now in the process of catching up with college coursework and assignments. But I've had this written and waiting to be edited and since I've got until December 1****st**** to hand in this next assignment, I figured I'd get on with it. **

**And finally – thank you all for the prompts. They're really helpful and I appreciate them. This one was prompted by **Tamuril2** and is, therefore, dedicated to her. **

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

The Watson's family car had only just pulled down the gravelled driveway to Holmes Manor, looking very out of place, when the door was tugged open and there, standing with his arms folded across his chest, was Tobias Holmes – Sherlock's father. Sherlock let out a huff and unbuckled his belt, picking up the rucksack he had taken with him, ready to sling it over his shoulder when he got out of the car.

All it took was one look at Mr. Holmes to find out who Sherlock took after. Just like Sherlock was growing into a very handsome, tall young man, Mr. Holmes had clearly been the same in his youth. His hair, now greying, held a slight curl like that atop of Sherlock's head. They even had a very similar dress sense – Sherlock's father was clad in a pale blue button down shirt, much like the ones that constantly donned Sherlock's thin frame. However, where Sherlock wore black jeans and lace up shoes, Mr. Holmes wore tailored trousers and loafers.

"Here we go." Sherlock grumbled as the car came to a stop and he popped the handle, opening the door. Mr. Watson stared after him for a moment, frowning at the change in him. His head was bowed slightly, his shoulders tense as he clung to the straps on his rucksack. John followed his friend, jogging to catch up with him and Mr. Watson was only a few steps behind them when they reached the door.

The Watson family had very nicely offered to take Sherlock away for a day with them. They'd gone for a day out at a local animal reserve and Sherlock seemed to like the idea of a break from studying for his up-and-coming examinations. It appeared that, genius though he may be, he was only gifted in two or three specific areas. Mathematics, English and Chemistry. The rest either didn't hold his attention, or he was struggling with them and didn't seem to want to ask for help.

"Mr. Watson," Sherlock's father greeted, holding out a hand to shake the one of the man in question. There was an air about him – a no nonsense kind of one; as if he expected everything to be perfect. At least he knew now why poor Sherlock had it drilled into him that everything had to be done just so and if not it wasn't good enough, "how lovely of you and your family to agree to allow my son to join you on your day out. I can only hope that he was well behaved."

Mr. Watson felt his eyebrows knit together as a frown took over his face. Sherlock, whilst emotionally struggling, was definitely a well behaved young man. His attitude, occasionally obnoxious, yes. It was as though he believed that he was better than everybody else. But with a father and a mother like his to look up to, well, who was he to blame? Other than that, however, Sherlock was a very well behaved teen. And the fact that Mr. Holmes had to question that had Mr. Watson wondering what this teen was like when they didn't see each other.

"Well, of course he was." Mr. Watson nodded, placing a reassuring hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Marvellous," Mr. Holmes clapped his hands together as though he was elated by that fact and then stepped to the side, creating enough room for Sherlock to pass through into the manor. Sherlock glanced behind him, bidding John goodbye with a small wave and disappearing into, what John knew was, the dining room. Mr Holmes called behind him as he vanished, "you and I both know that your mother would throw a paddy should your behaviour be anything but exemplary."

John couldn't help but think that was a bit of a double standard given the way his mother and father carried on when there was company around. Acting every bit the victim whenever their 'it's all about me' attitude resulted in people expressing their dislike for them. Especially when they used Sherlock and his brother as an excuse.

"He's a wonderful boy, Mr. Holmes." Mr. Watson assured him, hoping that Sherlock would hear him.

"Yes, well," Mr. Holmes nodded at the words, "he'd better be. We raised him to be."

And with that the niceties were over. Mr. Holmes thanked them, once again, for allowing Sherlock to join their day away. And Mr. Watson chose to let the comment go because, quite frankly, Mr. Holmes was, undoubtedly, the lesser of two evils.

**As always, thank you so much for reading and please carry on with your lovely reviews. I love reading them. **

**Ibelieveinguardianangels **


	33. Chapter 33

**Just a short filler chapter.**

**It's kind of from Harry's point of you.**

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

Harry was just a typical older sister. She loved winding up her brother and she also lived for winding up her brother's friends. But there seemed to be something different about Sherlock. She just couldn't bring herself to bother him.

She had to admit that she didn't know why. She didn't know if it was because he was so smart he'd probably realise that she was just trying to wind him up and, subsequently, ignore her. Or if it was because he always seemed so sad and as though their home acted as his safe haven.

She didn't want to risk ruining that for him.

With Mike Stamford, it didn't seem to matter as much. She'd contentedly tease him because she loved the reaction that it elicited. He would always _over_react and she found it absolutely hilarious. But she couldn't bring herself to risk hurting poor Sherlock.

She'd always liked the boy since he had first stepped foot into their house as a silent teenager with his head hung low and his attention usually focused on his feet. There was just something about him. She could tell that he would _never_ be one of those that would turn against her baby brother like so many others had done when the boy was younger.

Yes, John had suffered through bullying as a child. Nowhere near the same extent as Sherlock, but he had a basic idea of what Sherlock was going through and Harry was sure that strengthened their friendship somewhat.

Sherlock had always been very grateful when it came to her mother and father. They had taken the boy under their wing and treated him like their own son without any questions. They knew that he had issues, his upbringing wasn't the best and as a child genius he had _so_ much to contend with, and they were willing to be there to help him with everything. And although she wasn't there very often, she would be there to comfort him if ever he needed it and she was around.

In all honesty, Harry adored Sherlock. Not only did he keep John company but he was also a very rewarding young man to be around. It was a rare sight to see such intelligence in someone so young and Harry was in awe of him.

She just wished that his intelligence didn't result in him being ostracised by his peers.

She hated that the poor boy was made to feel so bad about himself just because he wasn't what society classed as 'normal'. His intelligence and his parent's views of their family had led to him being rather socially awkward and he usually didn't know how to act in certain situations. But John and her parents were certainly there to assist him with that.

She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that Sherlock was going to be a brilliant scientist in years to come. She also had no doubt that he would become a detective just as he aspired to be.

**Okay, so, I've decided that this story will end at 40 chapters. **

**Today there are two of them and this is the first. **

**Thank you for reading. **

**Please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	34. Chapter 34

**Here's the second of today's updates.**

**I don't know why, but I can imagine this occurring.**

**Sorry for any mistakes.**

John had grown accustomed to Sherlock making odd noises. He had grown used to him clicking his tongue when in thought or snorting in an undignified way if something surprised him. He had even grown used to him humming under his breath if he was concentrating deeply on something.

But hearing him outright laughing to himself in an otherwise empty basement was kind of unnerving.

John was getting ready to move now. He was 18 years old and would soon be going away to begin his army training. In order to ensure that his parents didn't have anything to worry about, he had agreed to assist them now in emptying out the basement of his old rubbish that he no longer needed and would likely never use again.

His parents were standing beside him in the hallway when the laughter rumbled from the aspiring detective down in the basement. With him hidden by the wall, it meant that the Watsons couldn't see what had amused him so and they shared a look before going down the few stairs and into the basement to find out what was so amusing to the chemistry student.

Standing in the middle of the basement was Sherlock, laughing at a clarinet case with the name 'John Watson' stuck on it with a white sticky tag.

When he saw John enter the basement he tried to get himself under control. But then he looked behind his friend, saw the amused glint in Mr. Watson's eyes and lost it again.

"What is so funny about a clarinet?" John demanded, crossing over to Sherlock and trying to remove the instrument from his hand. Sherlock, however, was surprisingly strong and didn't let go.

The aspiring detective tried to speak, but stalled, choking on his laughter.

"It's just... I just…" He gasped, "Can't imagine you… playing the… clarinet." Sherlock speech was mechanical as he panted his way through his sentence, struggling with his own laughter. "Aspiring soldier John Watson," his voice rose a few octaves on the end of John's name, "playing the clarinet."

John frowned, clearly not understanding the correlation between the two.

"I only played until I was 10. Then I gave it up." John defended, staring at the detective. "What's so amusing about that?"

Sherlock, suddenly containing himself, cleared his throat.

"Nothing, nothing at all." He turned, handing the clarinet to John's mother, his shoulders shaking in silent laughter. "The clarinet." He murmured, shaking his head.

**Something tells me that Sherlock would do something like this. I'm not sure what's so funny about the clarinet. It probably makes sense in Sherlock's mind. **

**Thanks for reading, please let me know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	35. Chapter 35

**Please don't murder me. I've been busy with college and work experience and some issues with mental and physical health. That's not mentioning my sudden obsession with Twilight (sorry any non-Twilight fans) and the urge to write for their fandom. I've had writer's block regarding Sherlock, but I'm back now. And now that I've finished college I should have some time to get on with some more fiction writing. **

**Sorry for any mistakes. **

With his eyebrows knitted together in confusion, John's head turned very slowly, hesitantly, to glance over his shoulder in the hopes that the very strange looking man who was loitering on the corner before him was staring intensely at somebody who happened to be walking behind him. No such look however, and John felt his heart drop as he realised that he was the only other person out in the street which meant that the stranger was staring directly at him.

If the fact that he was loitering on what was typically an empty street wasn't creepy enough, his entire attire made John sweat nervously. He was dressed smartly – too smartly, almost like a lawyer. His upper body was covered with a dress shirt, a blazer, a tie and a jacket. His bottom half in dress pants and very, very smart shoes. But oddly enough, it wasn't any of that which made John suspicious. It was his umbrella.

The man was holding onto a large umbrella, using it to support himself, by the looks of things despite the beautiful weather. John almost scoffed, beautiful weather? In London? But he was far too focused on the man before him.

He had this horrible feeling that he was about to be kidnapped.

And there was no other way for him to get to his house. Not without making a twenty minute detour, at least.

And so John decided that his best course of action was to suck it up. If the man wanted to kidnap him then he would just follow him anyway. So he held his breath and hoped for the best as he forced himself to walk past the strange man. He mentally crossed his fingers and almost breathed a sigh of relief as he walked past him. _Almost._

Just as he passed him, the man spoke. And he didn't just _speak_, but he spoke his _name._

John turned back to him but remained where he was. He had planned to keep a safe distance between them. But it appeared that the figure before him had other ideas and took a couple of steps towards him, using his umbrella as a makeshift walking stick. It took all the self-control that John had not to back away.

"I want to thank you."

Well that wasn't what John had been expecting at all. Murder you? Kidnap you? Maybe even drink your blood. But thank you? Nope.

John's eyebrows furrowed deeper, never really having had the chance to straighten up.

"For what?"

"Befriending my younger brother." Well, wasn't that helpful? The strange man's younger brother could be _anybody_. "Our parents can be rather overbearing. Your family have provided my brother with a safe haven. I simply do not know what he would have done without it."

_Oh!_ Realisation hit John like a train. _So this was the famous Mycroft Holmes._

Before him stood the second, and oldest, genius son of Tobias and Mae Holmes.

"It was no trouble." John shrugged nonchalantly. That wasn't quite true, however. It was _a lot_ of trouble. But there was absolutely no doubt that Sherlock was worth it. "He's a great friend."

Now_ that_ was the truth.

"Still," Mycroft continued, undeterred, "I know for a fact that your friendship means a significant amount to Sherlock."

John nodded. What else could he say?

"My brother is very socially inept." Mycroft spoke again, leaning his weight on his umbrella and John couldn't help but wonder how it was that it didn't break. "Your friendship had helped him through secondary school. I only wish that you had been there through his elementary school years."

Elementary school? How old _was_ Mycroft?

"Well, thank you." John nodded but the nod appeared a little more like a bow. He mentally cursed himself and threw his hand up to gesture behind him with his thumb. "I have to go. My mum's cooking."

"Of course." Mycroft nodded as a sleek black car pulled up menacingly beside them. For another moment, John thought he was about to be bundled into said car. But Mycroft said "it was a pleasure to meet you" and John took the opportunity to back away.

"And you." John eyed the car as he walked away, heading in the direction of his home and resisting the urge to look back.

With Tobias and Mae as his parents _and_ Mycroft for a brother, John was genuinely surprised that Sherlock hadn't lost his mind yet.

**Thank you for remaining with me. I'm so sorry for the wait. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


	36. Chapter 36

**It's been 18 years since John went off to the army and Sherlock to University.  
And now they're meeting again.  
Sorry for any mistakes.**

**I had been trying to write to make it to 40 chapters, but nothing was coming to me. This final chapter, however, pretty much wrote itself and I think that it's a sign that this story has run its course. I think forcing anymore chapters out would ruin it. **

_John Watson. _

The words of Mike Stamford's introduction bounced around inside the genius' head. It was a name that he hadn't expected to come across again. It was a name that elicited a strange sensation of happiness and comfort inside the consulting detective.

_John Watson. _

The closer Sherlock looked, the more he saw. In his late 30s now and with a medical degree obtained in this very hospital, he was no longer John Watson. He was now; _Doctor John Watson. _

In fact, he was _Army Doctor John Watson. _Just as he had always intended to be. An army medic. So it seemed that they both got what they wanted out of life. Sherlock was a detective. John was an army medic. _Was_ an army medic. Now an injured army medic invalided home from – where? Afghanistan or Iraq?

There was no denying that this was his old best friend. Of course, Sherlock could argue that there was a very high chance that this was _another_ man named John Watson but Sherlock knew what his family's views were on coincidences. The universe was rarely so lazy. What was the likelihood of a Doctor John Watson in London knowing Mike Stamford? A Doctor John Watson who had just come back from service in Afghanistan?

And a Doctor John Watson who didn't seem to recognise Sherlock one bit.

Generous John Watson, there was no arguing with himself now. No trying to convince himself otherwise. This was his old best friend – who else would allow a stranger to use their phone on their first meeting?

And Sherlock knew, of course he did, that he shouldn't feel quite _so_ disappointed that John didn't recognise him. After all, he was now 34 years old and the last time he had been in contact with the man was just before he'd gone to begin his army training at 18. Sherlock had only been 16 at the time.

Sherlock had been caught up in trying to avoid bullies and to get through his studies; John had been stuck into his training as a soldier and communication between them had been getting less and less. And no-one was to blame. Not really. Sherlock could have got his brother to find John's contact details very easily, but he'd made a number of mistakes whilst John had been away and he knew that John wouldn't be pleased with him if he knew.

Besides, unlike Sherlock, John was capable of making friends. In fact, he was very good at it. He didn't need to cling on to the hope that one day he might meet up with his best friend from his school years.

Sherlock had never actually expected it to happen. He hated to hope. It always led to disappointment.

But now he had a chance. John might not recognise him but it would have been pointless of Mike to have brought him here had he not believed that there was a chance of a friendship between them. And what better way to try and spark John's memory of him than by dropping hints about who he was?

_The Violin_. During his teenage years, Sherlock loved playing his violin. A love born out of his father's notion that every teenager needed to have some kind of musical hobby because, apparently, it had been proven that people who played an instrument in their childhood turned out to be better students. Sherlock had chosen the violin because his brother had decided that piano was for him and like his brother Sherlock most definitely was _not_. But apparently, this didn't seem to resonate with John.

_Chemistry_. John had walked in on him in the midst of an experiment but it didn't seem to have sparked any memories despite the fact that Sherlock was very passionate about chemistry in their youth and John had been there for a significant part of it.

_Talking. _John knew better than anyone that Sherlock had times when he would be so caught up in the throes of depression that he just couldn't seem to find the energy to socialise. And John had always been there when Sherlock had needed him. Surely, this would have triggered some kind of memory. Had John just completely deleted him out of his life when he joined the army?

Even Molly Hooper, who they both went to school with and had always been infatuated with the detective, hadn't seemed to remind him of anything.

"_How did you know about Afghanistan?"_

Was John's memory of Sherlock really so terrible that he couldn't remember their discussions about the future? They had spent many an hour sat talking about what they intended to do when they left school and what they wanted from their future. Did he not remember telling Sherlock about his dream of becoming an army doctor?

Well, if he couldn't remember it then there didn't seem to be much point in Sherlock trying to remind him, did there?

Now all that was left to do was to tell him about the flat.

"_We only just met…" _ Well that wasn't hurtful at all, was it? It's not like they'd spent the majority of their secondary school life together or anything.

"_We don't know a thing about each other … I don't even know your name." _ Ouch. If that didn't prove to Sherlock that John didn't remember who he was, nothing would.

Well, if he really didn't recall who he was, then there was no harm in telling him was there?

"_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street." _

That ought to do it. Now to see whether or not he turned up.

**So there we have it. The final chapter of Teenlock.  
Thank you all for reading and for the reviews. Thank you also for the follows and favourites.  
ibelieveinguardianangels **


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